<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Remembering Love by SlytherinsDragon</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26647555">Remembering Love</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlytherinsDragon/pseuds/SlytherinsDragon'>SlytherinsDragon</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Holmescest Works [12]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Amnesia, Angst, Banter, Fluff, Forbidden Love, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Romance, Sibling Incest, Smut, Some medical lingo, holmescest, learning to love again</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 09:41:03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>27,635</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26647555</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlytherinsDragon/pseuds/SlytherinsDragon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock wakes up in a hospital older than he expected. He tries to make sense of his life and his relationships.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Holmescest Works [12]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1745683</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>86</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>228</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/gifts">LadyGlinda</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I had this idea a long time ago involving the old amnesia trope. Gave it a go.<br/>I don't think it's as angsty as the tags make it seem.<br/>It's finished. I will post every few days.<br/>Enjoy. </p><p>And of course, big thanks to LadyGlinda who keeps me on task (well, somewhat!).</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>His back itches. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>God. It is so dark. There is something soft covering him. A blanket? Damn. It really fucking itches. He wills his arm to move, but it feels leaden. Too much effort. That smell though. Of disinfectants, perhaps? Soap? Even something flowery. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh for fuck’s sake, is he in a hospital… again? Hm… again. That would imply he’s been in a hospital before, right? Oh. Right. He’s overdosed before. Before. Yes. But what about now? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Need more data.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His throat hurts too. As if someone had shoved a pipe down it. But fuck, someone needs to scratch his back. It’s intolerable. And, he feels like he needs to go. To the loo that is. So many problems. There is this dull ache in his head too. Hm. He takes inventory of his body. One aching head, left leg, right leg, his… private parts… perhaps cock and balls is a less silly way to put it?, left arm, right arm, one goddamned itchy back – one complete functional(?) human body. Just that he doesn’t want to move. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Human bodies have names don’t they? What is his? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before he could contemplate his situation further, he slips back into the ether.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>* * *</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Everything is sore when he floats back into awareness. The dull ache in his head seems to have lessened. He must have hit his head at some point. That’s probably it. But how? He tries to kick his brain into gear, but it comes up with nothing. Head trauma. Amnesia. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fuck. How inconvenient! </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The fundamental question comes back to the forefront.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What. Is. His. Name? </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>His! </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh good. He’s male. A man. What year is it? He has no bloody clue. Perhaps… in the 2000s? But importantly… why doesn’t he remember… his name? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shit. Shitshit! </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His panic causes his eyes to open. Oh, that’s why he couldn’t see. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The room is dim, but he recognizes all the quiet beeps and clicking noise of the IV pumps. Great. This is the hospital. He’s… in an intensive care unit. Bollocks. Whatever his injury had been, it must have been bad. Well. He couldn’t even remember his name! Maybe he had overdosed and fallen and hit his bloody noggin. Could be a working hypothesis. He decides to go with that as a plausible theory. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is someone sitting by his bedside. A man. Short hair. Tired looking face. Concern all over his face. He looks familiar but he draws a blank in terms of coming up with a name. When his gaze finally catches the man’s – his visitor jumps to his feet and he grins. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, look who has decided to finally wake up!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tries to speak, but it comes out as an unintelligible croak. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We were so worried. You know. You’ve been out cold for weeks! Speaking of which – I should go grab your brother. He just stepped out for a moment to take a call. Be back in a tick!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man walks out of the room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He falls back against the bed. That’s something else to put on the ‘things that he knows for certain’. He’s been out for a long time. Weeks. Weakly, he finally reaches for his back and scratches at that itch that had been tormenting him for… days? Weeks? He isn’t sure. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But his brother… his brain suddenly conjures up a tall personage. A man in a suit. Three-piece. Tie. Pocket watch. Hm. There is something he likes to carry around with him. A raincoat? No. A rubber duck? That’s ludicrous. Oh right. Brolly! And. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He frowns. If he had overdosed… then his brother would come in here and… He closes his eyes tight. Lecture him. In his infuriatingly all-knowing tone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s right. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>God. He’s such a fucking disappointment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Footsteps approach his room. The man had left the sliding door open. That’s his brother alright. Tall. Looming. Impeccably dressed in a three-piece suit. Just as he had imagined. Minus the brolly. He’s… handsome? No. Don’t go there. One is not supposed to find their siblings attractive. Wait. Is he gay? He discards the train of thought. There’s a ring on Mycroft’s fourth finger. Gold. Is his brother married? Damn. Why the fuck does he care about these things? He should be worried about the scolding he is about to get…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His throat decides to work then. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Piss off, Mycroft. Yes. Yes. I know drugs are bad for me! And that I am a major disappointment to you. Save yourself the energy of lecturing me and use it to find some cake to shove into that fat…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He trails off at the expression on his brother’s face. His brother-or-rather-Mycroft looks hurt. Surprised. And his eyes! They look… devastated. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Mycroft – ever the stalwart – schools his features back into his trademark poker face. No. This is a different expression that his brother is adopting now. Mycroft had seemed hopeful going into the room, as if he hadn’t expected to be on the receiving end of a scathing tongue. Shit. Did he wake up in an alternative reality where they actually got along?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And, he is more shocked when his brother turns tail and flees the room. Good God. He’s certain that he has said worse things to him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The other (shorter, now that he’s had a reference) man sighs deeply and says. “That was a bit not good… Sherlock.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock. That’s his name. Weird. But he will take it. Well. His brother is Mycroft. Oddly enough – he remembers his brother’s name but not his own. His parents must be sadists. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another person enters the room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Female. Blue scrubs. Surgical mask. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A nurse. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah. Mr. Holmes. You are awake! I know this may sound stupid, but I need to ask you a couple of questions, alright? What is your name?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sherlock Holmes.” He says tentatively. And then he admits reluctantly. “I only figured that out because you told me.” He looks pointedly at the man. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man furrows his brow, suddenly looking very worried. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What year is it?” The nurse asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“2010?” Sherlock says – hopefully. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man’s face falls. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The nurse reveals. “It’s actually 2021, Mr. Holmes. September 7th, 2021.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His jaw drops. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Really? He’s lost that many years? Oh god. How old is he now? What year was he born? 1980 comes to mind. Fuck. He’s over forty! </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This must all be a sick joke. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And one last question. Where are you, Mr. Holmes?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hospital.” That is a question he could answer without help.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But where?” She prods further. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Um… London?” Sherlock is encouraged by the man’s unconscious nodding. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think we need a neuro evaluation.” The man says to the nurse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She nods. “I will go talk to the primary team. They will also want a physical therapy evaluation. And we can get that Foley out of him and get a swallow evaluation done too so that he can eat and drink.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The nurse rushes out of the room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh. Shit. He’s had a Foley in him all this time? That’s why he feels the need to go pee. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you… do you remember me?” The man asks him, looking at him with serious eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Um…” Sherlock looks at him. “I don’t think so. Oh. Wait. Jared? No. Jarrett? I don’t think that’s quite right. Jan? Oh – wait… I was looking for a flatmate in 2010. You are... John.” And then he feels rather touched. “You… you shot someone for me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Strictly off the record, of course.” John pats his hand gently. “But yes. One of my finer shots.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can I ask a question?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course.” John looks at him encouragingly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did I overdose?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” His flatmate shakes his head vehemently. He says rather firmly. “You haven’t touched a single illicit drug in years. At least that’s what I know. Your brother could probably answer that question better.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s… unbelievable.” Sherlock is shocked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can… um. Look at your arm if you want more evidence.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“God.” Sherlock slowly pulls up the sleeve of his mint-coloured gown. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aside from a few healed scars indicative of old indulgences, the skin over his cubital fossa is beautifully intact. Okay. So this isn’t some sort of elaborate hoax. John also pulls out his phone and shows him the date: September 7, 2021. Disappointingly, phones haven’t changed too much in the last ten years.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My throat… it’s really sore now.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You should rest, Sherlock. They are going to want you to talk for the neurology evaluation. I could get some ice if you want some.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh. Thank you. But, why do they need to evaluate me? I mean it’s obvious I have retrograde amnesia due to I am deducing – head trauma?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You got pushed out of a window – Sherlock, and you hit your head rather hard on the way down. Fortunately it was only the ground floor. There was a subdural hematoma and your intracranial pressure got a little high, but they were able to lower it without a craniotomy. That’s why you still have all your curls. They did have to intubate since you were completely out of it. That might also explain why your throat is sore. They took the tube out of you a few days ago.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh.” Sherlock nods, already drifting off again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>* * *</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The neurology team comes to check up on him minutes after his swallow test. That had consisted of a physician making him ingest some truly vile concoctions of differing viscosities to assess his swallowing capabilities. He had passed, but still it had been nasty. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>God. Do they even taste their own torture? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oddly enough, every physician is wearing a face mask of some sort. Surgical. N-95s. One is even wearing a face shield. He doesn’t have some contagious disease, does he? His head throbs, but he doesn’t feel </span>
  <em>
    <span>sick.</span>
  </em>
  <span> His nurse had even come in earlier and took his vitals. Everything had been within normal parameters.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But John isn’t wearing any facial coverings though. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They shine bright lights in his eyes, ask him innumerable questions to test his cognition and memory and use hammers, pins and feathers to test his sensory and motor systems. When the consultant finally tells him that he has ‘traumatic amnesia’ due to blunt head trauma after their extensive testing, Sherlock just laughs and says. “I could have told you that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He follows up with. “What can you do about that? My memory?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothing.” The consultant – Dr. Kim – replies. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothing…?!” Sherlock sounds shocked to his own ears. He really shouldn’t be surprised, as he had known that Dr. Kim’s answer is the correct one, but still… it’s disappointing. “I am missing over a decade’s worth of memories!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothing.” She reaffirms. “You are vitally stable. You are breathing. You are eating – I saw you snacking on those chocolate chip cookies just before we came in. You can continue to take the paracetamol for your headaches when you go home. Your memory will come back eventually. Days. Weeks. Even months… it will take time and patience…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Patience? Have you met me?” Sherlock gives her an eye roll.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The physician actually laughs. “Well. It will take time, Sherlock, whether you like it or not. But you should be glad that there seems to be nothing else neurologically wrong with you. Subdural hematomas are no joke.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well. Thanks.” Sherlock mutters sarcastically as the neurology team vacates the room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He then turns to John. “Why is everyone besides Mycroft and you wearing masks?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh. Err. Carryover policy from last year.” John explains. “We had a worldwide pandemic in 2020. A strain of coronavirus transmitted through respiratory droplets. Perhaps even through airborne spread. It was, to put it lightly, a shitshow until the vaccine came out a few months ago. Not everyone gets their titres checked after vaccination, so quite a few places still keep universal masking in place. And of course, in some people the vaccine doesn’t work. Then there’s the anti-vaxxers. I had my titres checked, so I feel confident that I won’t catch it. And some people are just paranoid.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wow. How much has he missed over the ten years? Pandemics. A better relationship with his brother. Years of experimental data. Exciting cases. Life-altering experiences. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Utterly depressing, he thinks.   </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Um… Sherlock?” John interrupts his thoughts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes John?” Sherlock turns to look at his flatmate.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have to go. Have to go pick up my daughter from school. Sorry to abandon you to the wolves here, but –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, yeah. I understand.” Sherlock waves his hand in dismissal as John picks up his things and leaves. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Good grief! When did John have a daughter? John is married? Yes. There’s that suspicious golden ring around his finger. He should have noticed it earlier.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh god. Is </span>
  <em>
    <span>he </span>
  </em>
  <span>married? Sherlock gives both of his ring fingers a quick look over and sags with relief against the bed to find them both barren. Okay good. Besides, if he did have a spouse – they would be at his bedside by now? He can be relieved that no one is crying tears over him or something… right? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>* * *</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Mrs. Hudson.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock is relieved that he can remember the name of his next visitor. His landlady. Well, considering that he remembers John after being given some information, it would make sense that he would remember Mrs. H. Especially since they’ve had history even before the Baker Street flatshare. He had helped put her abusive drug-lord of an ex-husband into the electric chair after all. One of his early successes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, Sherlock. You gave me such a fright! No more falling out of windows, young man!” She tuts and waggles her fingers at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I will endeavour to do my best.” Sherlock nods seriously. It’s not like he had wanted to be shoved out of a window! “But, I do have to say that I have no memory of being defenestrated.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know, dearie. John told me. I suppose you aren’t hungry, are you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just a tad. One of the nurses smuggled some chocolate chip cookies over to me earlier. And the hospital slop looked completely unappetizing, so I only had the fruit cup. Figured that they couldn’t ruin fruit!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mrs. Hudson chuckles as she takes out a few containers from her bag. Sherlock opens them when she places them on the overbed table. There is a chicken soup with a generous amount of pasta, chicken and veggies. Some grilled cheese sandwiches cut into triangles. A box of freshly cut watermelon. And there is even… a slice of cake. Chocolate with walnut. He winces, reminded of the harsh words he had delivered to his brother. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He takes a plastic spoon and sips at the soup. It’s delicious. He has some more. Hm. He’s had Mrs. Hudson’s chicken noodle soup before, but it didn’t taste like this… Perhaps she has changed the recipe within the last few years? He unwraps one of the grilled cheese sandwiches and it tastes even better with alternating spoonfuls of hot soup.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His landlady (looking older and frailer than he had remembered) sits on the armchair that John had been sitting in earlier, and she just watches him. Seeming to relish seeing Sherlock devour everything. Sherlock is hungry. He supposes the weeks of being tube-fed and given fluids through the IV hadn’t been fantastic for his nutritional status. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>One of his primary doctors had come by earlier and told him that he would be discharged tomorrow, considering that there is nothing else they could do for him here. Sherlock is still pathetically weak, he had to call for a nurse earlier to help him to the loo. At least the catheter isn’t in his urinary tract anymore. Small steps. He reminds himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I guess I am coming back to Baker Street tomorrow.” He turns to Mrs. Hudson after starting on the cake. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.” She smiles, but there seems to be something a little sad in it. “We cleaned out your room for you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh. Um. Thank you.” Sherlock finds it a little weird that he’s being so polite. Perhaps, it’s because he feels so unmoored in this reality. Or maybe he became a politer creature in his old age. Miracles never cease.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not a problem, Sherlock. I just hope that you get your memories back.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mrs. Hudson?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, Sherlock.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wonder… do you know what my relationship with my brother is like these days?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why are you asking, Sherlock?” She looks concerned.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know. I guess… I was my normal nasty self earlier. But. I seem to have really hurt him. I mean… I’ve said things to him like this before, but he usually dishes it back out to me in spades. He’s never left the room without saying anything before.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sherlock, dearie. Your brother and you had buried the hatchet several years back. You two are quite close these days.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh.” That’s what he had suspected. That’s something to think about. All he remembers are the arguments, the childish fighting and the heaping pile of resentments. He had really grown up, it seems in this new day and age. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He opens the tupperware of grapes and pops one into his mouth, savouring its sweetness. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you think… that he would come back?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your brother? Certainly. You could always text him, you know. Your phone is on the nightstand.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Damn. He hasn’t looked there at all since he had woken up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And. John. Does he still live at Baker Street?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes. He and his lovely wife. Sophie. And his daughter, or I should say – your goddaughter, Rosie.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh wow. He is a godfather. It seems that John – despite all of Sherlock’s efforts to disrupt his dates – had managed to land a wife. Impressive. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I suppose I am still a consulting detective? And that I got pushed out of the window… during a case?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes. That’s what Greg told me. There was a bit of a scuffle. Fist-fighting, wrestling – and you ended up outside in the kerfuffle.” Mrs. Hudson tuts. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I suppose… you all took turns keeping watch over me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We did. But… it was your brother who was here all the time. Greg and I managed to force him to go home last night to go sleep in his own bed and take a shower. He…” Mrs. Hudson shakes her head. “He looked awful.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock could feel his stomach drop. He doesn’t know why, but there are all these strange fuzzy feelings that bubble up within him whenever his brother comes into mind. It’s all very confusing because the fondness that he feels toward John and Mrs. Hudson is different. God. He could imagine it, his brother sitting where Mrs. Hudson is sitting right now. Watching over him. Perhaps his hand would even go seek out Sherlock’s and hold it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shakes his head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is crazy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If his brother really caught wind of this, he would be locked into the loony bin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He finishes the grapes and lies back down on his bed. He has the beginnings of a headache again. More paracetamol is required. Reaching over without looking, he hits the ‘call’ button for a nurse. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>* * *</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He is being watched.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock blinks in the darkness. It is the middle of the night. He deduces as he had fallen asleep shortly after dinner before Mrs. Hudson had left. The tupperware that had been in front of him is gone. Plus, he vaguely remembers being woken up briefly for a vitals check at midnight by his night shift nurse. Okay. So it’s past midnight. There isn’t anyone in the room. The curtains are drawn, but there is a small gap present between his bed and the door to his room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mycroft.” He rasps, his mouth feeling dry. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When his brother steps through the curtain, Sherlock reaches for the light switch and turns the light on to a tolerable level. Mycroft stands at the foot of his bed, his hands resting (clenching?) on the footboard. His brother doesn’t speak. He maintains the poker face that Sherlock had seen earlier. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good god. You smell like an ashtray.” Sherlock wrinkles his nose. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He is certain his brother hadn’t smelled like that earlier in the day. In fact, if he reviewed his memory from that timepoint, he would have said his brother had quit smoking altogether. Shit, did he take up smoking again because Sherlock had said something nasty to him? Ridiculous! Their conversations back in the day had been riddled with veiled insults and not so hidden ones! But then again, he had hit his head really hard. It wouldn’t exactly be amiss to have faulty deductive faculties at this moment. And considering how sensitive he is to the scent of tobacco, it’s logical to conclude that he hadn’t had a fag in a long time. Hm… </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft actually bends his neck to sniff at himself. “No. Not quite like Mummy’s roses, I am afraid. So. Brother mine.” Mycroft steels himself. “Going to tell me to ‘piss off’ again? Or that I ought to go pick up a cake-baking hobby instead of creeping around your bedside?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>These incendiary retorts seem to come to Sherlock’s lips reflexively. He opens his mouth. Then promptly closes it again before he could let one of them fly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft is only saying that because he had been hurt. Wow. How did he know that? Okay. Maybe it is really 2021. There is a difference between episodic memory and interpersonal wisdom. He might have forgotten the former, but not the latter. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or at least in terms of how to deal with his brother. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” He reaches over wearily for the styrofoam cup of water on the overbed table that had been stowed to the side for the night. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suddenly his brother is at his side. Mycroft grabs the cup and holds it out to Sherlock. He takes it with a nod and sips the cool liquid with the straw. Their eyes meet. There is something cool and unreadable in them. It just feels off. This entire interaction with his brother. And Sherlock can’t deduce why. Mycroft stands awkwardly at his bedside, his hands clasped behind his back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before the silence between them could get too awkward, Sherlock finds himself mumbling. “I am sorry –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come again?” Mycroft squats down a little, resting one hand against his thigh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am sorry.” These seldom-said syllables feel strange in Sherlock’s mouth. But it feels like the right thing to do. Apologizing. He then says softly. “Mrs. Hudson told me that we buried the hatchet. I…” Sherlock looks at Mycroft a little helplessly. He seriously doesn’t know how to interact with his brother. Who probably doesn’t even know what to do around him too. Mrs. H had said that they were close… </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft appears somewhat relieved. Perhaps by Sherlock’s lack of hostility. His brother sits down in the armchair a few centimetres away from where he had been squatting. “It’s alright, little brother. Focus on getting better and we can see where we stand.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The silence between them this time is more comfortable. Sherlock readjusts himself in the bed, turning onto his side to take the pressure off his back and bottom. His brother looks exhausted. His eyes are bloodshot, there’s dark circles and so many furrowed lines. Damn. If he’s forty-one now, Mycroft is pushing fifty. Oh. Their parents. Are they still around? Is Mummy going to descend upon him soon? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How’s… our parents?” Sherlock takes another sip of water.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Still line-dancing every weekend. They will come by in a few days. Mummy’s got a charity dinner to host.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Okay. So that is still the status quo.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is there anyone special in your life, Mycroft?” He finds himself asking. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft seems to stare off into space. For a simple yes/no question, his brother is taking forever to answer. Perhaps… a recent breakup of a long-term relationship? A break? This is strange, asking his brother these questions when he had used to deduce the answers himself. He knows that his brother is gay. He’s seen the signs before. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” Mycroft finally answers him. “There isn’t anyone.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock doesn’t prod further. It seems to be a sensitive topic judging by the way that his brother now refuses to make eye contact with him. Well, yeah, he muses, his brother is sitting by his bedside at – he reaches for his phone and looks at the time on the lock screen – 4:28 in the morning. Definitely no significant other to go home to then.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Go home, Mycroft. You should sleep. Don’t you have work tomorrow?” Sherlock finds himself caring about all these trivialities he had never cared about before. “Anthea would throw you out of the office…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His brother shrugs. “I think… I would rather stay here. You will be discharged in the morning after morning rounds. Dr. Hooper will help you back to Baker Street.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh. Does Molly still have a crush on him? Not the type of question he would ask his brother. Guess he would have to find out in the morrow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You should take your own advice, Sherlock. Sleep. It would only help with the healing process.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know I am a horrible patient.” Sherlock holds out his now-empty cup and Mycroft takes it for him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know.” Mycroft agrees readily. “I am a terrible patient too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh. When had Mycroft been hospitalized? Shit. Why can’t he bloody remember? Can’t have been recently… he appears to be in good health. He’s bollocks at the patience business. The idea of waiting passively for his memory to return is downright horrid. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The lull of sleep seems to be intensifying and Sherlock yawns. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he gets in a few more questions. “Just… how close were we, brother?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We went to the Amalfi Coast together shortly before you had your accident, Sherlock.” His brother offers after pondering the question for a moment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Like – just ourselves?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A nod. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not for –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. For fun.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fun… now that’s a word he had not associated with his brother for a long time. Amalfi… that’s in Italy, he recalls. Mountains, beaches, hikes – it wouldn’t be too far from Pompeii, wouldn’t it? That had been something that interested Sherlock from a young age. People that had been unfortunate enough not to flee being trapped in time. A morbid fascination. Mm… but his brother… did he wear three-piece suits on such an excursion? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He drifts off.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>* * *</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ready to get out of here?” Molly asks him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. I hate hospitals.” Sherlock takes his bag of clothes from her and with some help from her, he manages to get to the loo without incident. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He still feels so bloody unsteady on his feet. Fortunately for him, Molly had shown up with a wedding ring on her finger and the signs of cohabitation with a toddler, a cat and… most importantly a husband. Guess he is the only bachelor left out of their Baker Street Circle. Well, with the exclusion of Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson. Even Lestrade had married again. Mrs. Hudson had informed him of that yesterday. Hm. Why is he fixated on everyone’s relationships? This is just… not him! Had he been actively looking for a partner before he had been unceremoniously shoved out of the window? He has no fucking clue. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quickly, he strips himself out of the hospital gown and takes quick stock of the new collection of scars he seems to have accumulated. Damn. He had gotten shot. He lightly touches the scar on the right upper quadrant of his belly and then traces the long thin centrally located scar that goes down his abdomen. Surgical opening for after he had gotten shot… presumably. For hemorrhagic control. There are other ones too. Perks of the job. Well, the goldfish do say that battle scars are hot… Now </span>
  <em>
    <span>why </span>
  </em>
  <span>does he even care about that? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe he does need a psychiatric evaluation. These are not typical Sherlockian thoughts. This is a strange new world indeed. A scary one. One where apparently he hasn’t touched an illicit drug in eons. Gone to Italy with his brother. Voluntarily. What’s even more miraculous is that neither of them had killed each other! And… Mycroft had seemed wistful(?) before Sherlock had fallen asleep. He’s a godfather now too – who would have thought of that? Mrs. Hudson had shown him pictures of himself and Rosie playing together in a park. His life has changed. Sherlock isn’t sure what to make of it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He puts on his shirt and clumsily manages to put the buttons into the correct slots. Joy. There’s something off with his co-ordination too. He has to sit on the toilet to get his trousers and socks on as his sense of balance is severely compromised. This is going to be a struggle when he gets back to Baker Street. He then stumbles out of the bathroom while grabbing onto the doorway for support and Molly helps him to the waiting wheelchair. Bloody hospital policies making him feel like a man old before his time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you have your phone and charger?” Molly asks, surveying the room for Sherlock’s loose possessions. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh. Um. My charger is at the far side of the bed.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Molly quickly grabs the cable still attached to the electrical socket and she takes Sherlock’s phone from the overbed table. She hands him both items before grabbing the discharge paperwork and she pushes him out of the room. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>* * *</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His flat has changed. Gone is all his experimental equipment – and even the furniture had been exchanged for newer and more modern variants. The entire flat had been completely redone at some point. Everything is childproofed. And, there’s a new flatmate of course – John’s blonde-haired wife, who is visibly pregnant. Due within a few weeks. Works in advertising.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Molly and her both help Sherlock to his armchair in the living room – chatting avidly about pregnancy things that Sherlock would rather not be hearing. Maternity clothes, Sophie’s latest cravings, about how Sophie feels like a whale ready to explode – etcetera, etcetera. Ugh. There’s even a playmat in the middle of the living room, where a little girl, Rosie, is playing with castle-patterned wooden blocks. She must be around 4-6 years of age. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uncle Sherlock!” She squeals, causing him to wince. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hello Rosie.” He says from his chair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You visit!” She gets up and runs up to him – her arms outstretched. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes. I am back.” He says, accepting her hug. “From the hospital.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I missed you!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I… uh missed you too.” Sherlock replies awkwardly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mummy said you fell out of a window. And hit your head. And you don’t ‘member’ things.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s a succinct summary, Rosie girl.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What is… sux-sinct?” She furrows her brow, looking very much like John does when he’s processing something beyond his mental capacities. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Means short. Concise.” Sherlock lets her sit on his lap. Conversing with Rosie is definitely a hell of a lot better than being involved in the other terrifying conversation that’s going on in the flat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The women have ditched him, and are now hanging about in the kitchen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh.” She then ponders. “Do you ‘member’ me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sort of. Like I know of you. But I don’t remember you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She looks sad. “You don’t ‘member’ going to the zoo during the summer?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I am afraid not. Did we go with your dad?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. Just us!” She smiles. “We saw everything!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She then starts regaling Sherlock with everything that they had seen and done in the zoo in great detail, and he has no bloody memory of any of it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>* * *</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Mycroft doesn’t come by today. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock feels like a stranger in his own flat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had dinner with Sophie, John and Rosie, feeling rather like he’s intruding. The easy camaraderie between John and himself back in 2010 has changed too. They are more… distant with each other? As if they had a serious break in their friendship at some point, and even though they had ‘made up’, it had changed something fundamental. Did it have to do with John’s wife? Hm.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s missing something. Something… just doesn’t feel right. Even his room is off too. The wallpaper had been taken down and the walls painted a neutral shade of tan. His sock index is out of order in a strange systematic way. It’s as if someone who sort of understands how his system works, but not quite – had arranged it rather than maliciously putting things out of order. His bed, desk and periodic table are here, and even though his clothes and familiar knick-knacks are placed in their correct locations, he can’t help feeling that there are things missing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Good god. Does he miss his brother? He suddenly feels compelled to talk with him. Mycroft knows more than he’s letting on. Sherlock is positive. He pulls out his phone which he hadn’t managed to unlock. He’s changed his password patterns too over the years it seems. Fuck. Why is this so bloody hard! He swipes his fingers over the dots one more time, and he feels somewhat triumphant when the home screen finally pops up. The background takes him by surprise though. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a picture of Mycroft and himself. Mycroft’s arm is wrapped around his shoulder, and they are standing on a cliff overlooking a picturesque sea. The Mediterranean. Perhaps from the trip that Mycroft had alluded to in the wee hours of the night. They look… happy. Happy in a way that Sherlock does not recognize. A real brotherly picture. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There are no unread texts, so Sherlock pulls up Mycroft’s number. It has remained unchanged from a decade ago. His fingers hover over the keyboard, but he has no idea what to say. He only wishes he remembers. His life in his forties seems a lot more happier than the life that he still has memories of. He wonders what Mycroft must be feeling. The devastation in his eyes yesterday when he had walked into Sherlock’s room. He cannot unsee that. Sherlock still feels bad about it, even though old him wouldn’t have had any remorse. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I am disappointed that you didn’t show. SH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The response is immediate.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I had to catch up on work, little brother. My apologies. MH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Any luck in the memories department? MH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Zilch. Rosie is not amused. SH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I still think I am in 2010. SH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s really unsettling, Mycroft. It feels like 2010 was yesterday. My last ‘memory’ of you before my accident was of you lecturing me over my recklessness as I ran off without backup again. Yet emotionally and even my ways of thinking are not what I remembered from 2010. It’s quite jarring. SH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I saw the background picture on my phone. We looked happy. SH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I feel like a stranger in my own flat. SH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I hope you remember everything soon. MH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I think you are hiding something from me. SH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>There is another stretch of time that elapses before Mycroft replies.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Some things are better left to nature. MH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Goodnight, brother mine. MH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock knows a dismissal when he sees one. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s just so bloody frustrating! Why won’t Mycroft just be frank? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He drags himself out of bed and with great concentration makes his way to the loo. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>A week or so passes without seeing his brother. Sherlock has the distinct feeling that Mycroft is avoiding him. They text now and then of things inconsequential.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock settles into his life of being the Watson third-wheel. Or rather fourth. He plays with Rosie, babysitting her on the few occasions where both her parents are absent from Baker Street. Sophie works from home four days a week and goes to the office on the last workday. Typically Friday. It is a holdover from the pandemic days. John still works at the local locum and takes a few A&amp;E shifts every now and then. John and Sophie try and make him feel welcome, but it leaves him with the impression that they would be happier without him here. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And it makes sense.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The three Watsons are sharing a room upstairs. A room smaller than his bedroom. There’s a fourth Watson (another girl) who is about to be due anytime soon. The flat is too small for all of them to exist comfortably. This relatively quiet time is precious to them before their lives become insane when the second baby arrives. The calm before the storm. Sophie does look grateful when Sherlock had taken Rosie to Mrs. Hudson’s the previous evening so that she could spend some alone time with John. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lestrade had shown up every other day and asked Sherlock for his opinion on cases. Fortuitously there is nothing wrong with his deductive processes, although his attention span and ability to concentrate is rather limited. Likely secondary from the head injury. Lestrade doesn’t seem to mind. Sherlock rather suspects he visits more for social reasons than for advice. These cases do not require much imagination to solve. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mummy had made a barely tolerable pilgrimage. He had barely refrained from telling her to leave. She could be so overbearing at times. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The most startling discovery is that his own sex drive has gone haywire. He’s never wanked so much in his entire life. Fuck. He had always thought that he was asexual but this is clearly not the case anymore. Another point in favour of the theory that he might have been actively dating before his accident. Alas, he could find no trace of such activities on his phone and even his laptop. No dating website profiles, no message logs and no unusual contacts stored on his phone or messenger applications. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Did he just rely on his hands for sexual stimulation? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He groans. This is fucking inadequate. He falls onto his bed, his hand instinctively reaching for the bottle of lubricant that he had always kept for the rare occasion his transport needed release. Clumsily, he shucks off his pants and trousers and takes his partially erect cock in one hand. He strokes at a steady pace while trying to keep his sounds to a minimum. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What’s his type anyways? Hm? He had been watching porn the last few days. Women had been ruled out quickly and he had found himself gravitating toward tall, well-endowed and hairy men. So, he is gay. Very much so. Well, he hadn’t been lying when he had told John that ‘girlfriends weren’t his area’. Fuck, what did John call that kink when he had accidentally(?) and most-awkwardly stumbled upon some gay porn in front of Sherlock back in 2010? Sherlock had ribbed him for days afterwards. Size-queens?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh dear god. Is he still a virgin? He pumps himself slowly. A faceless man comes to mind. He imagines kissing this newly-made up entity. It’s almost alarming how detailed he is able to furnish this fantasy. The man kisses back, furious and hard. Sherlock bites his pillow when the man nips sharply at his lip, his tongue seeking or rather demanding entry into his mouth – hiding the gasp that would have escaped. He can feel the fur of the other man against his otherwise hairless skin – and god, he loves it. Fuck, he doesn’t even know how he knows what all these sensations feel like. Past experience? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But good god, it feels so damned good.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He moans into the mystery-man’s mouth when fingers roughly pinch at his nipple (he does it for real on himself), and his other one gets sucked on with faceless man’s mouth while hands are gently caressing the taut planes of his abdomen. Mapping out the musculature. He uses his one hand to explore himself, stroking his belly, his sides and his inner thighs. God. Fuck. This isn’t enough. An embarrassing sort of whine leaves his lips. No. He’s never wanked like this in whatever living memory he has. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The fantasy man’s mouth is back upon his, consuming him – sending shivers down his entire body. And then he freezes, when he realizes that his finger had brushed against the tightly furled hole of his arse. Oh. Fuck. He likes to be topped. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Where did this idea come from? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Curiously, he squeezes out some more lubrication before swirling his digit around the rim of his hole. Slowly, he breaches the ring of muscle. Fuck. His breaths are becoming rather stilted. His cock had leapt to full attention at some point. Sherlock cannot recall ever being so achingly hard in his life. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fuckfuckfuck… he’s too damned loud – so he buries his face against his pillow, trying to muffle the incessant moaning and loud breathing. He rubs against his insides. It’s astonishing how easily he could imagine himself being speared upon someone’s thick dick. And how easily his hole takes a second and a third finger. Oh god. That feels too good. He needs… more. He wiggles a fourth in and shit – is that his prostate!? Ohgodohgodoh… fuck. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Without warning he spills, biting hard on his pillow. He collapses onto his back, panting. How good would this be with a real cock up his arse? Oh. In the haze of post-wanking bliss, he realizes that he must be getting fucked regularly from somewhere… His arse had taken his fingers too easily, and it hadn’t been uncomfortable at all. Seriously, this feels like an act he’s done many times before. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shit. There must have been someone. Did he have a significant other? It’s ridiculous. If he does, he’s going to be pissed that he hasn’t come forward. Abandoning him to this confusion. And it seems like no one amongst the people he knows is aware of this fact. No mentions of a partner. Nothing. They probably think he’s a sexless being. Fuck. Mycroft would know. He vets everyone who touches Sherlock’s life for the most insignificant of personal reasons. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bollocks. Is he actually crying? For this mysterious partner of his? Maybe it’s what they call a friends-with-benefits relationship? But then, he would have their number, wouldn’t he? Or is this someone who had decided to leave while he had lost his memory? Had deleted their number from Sherlock’s phone? But wouldn’t big brother give them the smackdown? Someone would have mentioned it by now, right? Lestrade hadn’t. Molly hadn’t. John hadn’t. There is no mention of it from Mrs. Hudson who loves to examine gossip from all angles. Mycroft hadn’t either. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s no beating around the bush here. He is lonely. That’s what he’s been feeling ever since he had returned back to Baker Street. It’s not just the sex. He’s missing something. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Someone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sighing, he gets out of the bed to go clean up his mess. At least he can walk around the flat now without feeling like he’s going to topple over. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>* * *</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Mycroft? SH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The response as usual comes quickly.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Yes, Sherlock? MH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Was I dating anyone before I fell out of that window? SH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Why do you ask? MH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>What the hell does he say to that? That he had wanked and came to a realization that there is something missing in his life? Mycroft would laugh at him for days. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh. But they are supposedly closer now, right?</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Things don’t feel right, brother. SH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I just realized how lonely I am. SH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Apparently I have a sex drive. That wasn’t there in 2010. SH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft doesn’t immediately reply. Fuck. Is that ‘too much information’ for their brotherly relationship? Just when Sherlock thinks Mycroft had moved onto more important things, his phone vibrates. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Some people are late bloomers in that department. MH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It appears that you are one of them. MH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s killing me. If this is how goldfish feel all the time, I commend them for being functional at all. SH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Well, there are toys, your hands, pornography… MH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Dating apps, hookup sites? It’s not enough. I tried all of those. SH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Wait. Sherlock. Did you really go online and look for an encounter? MH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No. I looked for evidence of any previous sexual history. SH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And? MH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I found none. SH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Are you inclined to use such methods to procure sex? MH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No. I just want to know if I had a partner, and if I do, why in bloody fuck has he abandoned me to my amnesia? SH </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Sherlock… MH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>If you are lonely, I think we better meet. MH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Now you want to meet? I was under the impression that you were avoiding me! SH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I have to confess that I was. Let me rectify this please, brother. Anywhere in particular you wish to go? MH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I don’t care. Just get me out of this. Please. SH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Okay, okay, I got you, little brother. MH</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>* * *</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Mycroft has been avoiding him. His indignant and confused mood has given way to melancholy. Yet, Sherlock doesn’t blame him. Neither of them know how to interact with each other right now and somehow Sherlock has the feeling that they need to fix this. It’s evident that Mycroft misses the Sherlock before the defenestration. Well, yeah – current-him did tell him to piss off and go shove cake into his mouth… </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He feels compelled to dress up. Otherwise he had been lounging around Baker Street like a slob: sweatpants, t-shirt, pyjamas – his dressing gown. He finds a nice charcoal shirt, pair of tight-fitting trousers, a suit jacket of a darker shade – hm… a tie. Black. An apology to big brother. He admires himself for a moment in the mirror before putting on his socks and oxfords. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Taking out his phone, he looks at his texts with Mycroft.  </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Wait. Sherlock. Did you really go online and look for an encounter? MH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Is he going crazy? His brother had seemed to be unfazed about the conversation of his sex drive, but the suggestion of him using some dating website to find a fuck-buddy had forced his hand…? To meet up with him? Is… Mycroft jealous? Or just an overprotective big brother? Wait. If Mycroft is jealous… what in bloody hell does this mean? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He exits out of the text messages and examines the picture of the two of them. Mycroft’s arm casually slung around his shoulders. His smile. Not one of his polite ones for barely tolerable company, but a genuine one. Happy and relaxed. His clothes – a casual linen shirt with the top buttons undone, revealing fur curling over the edges and a pair of jeans. Looking so masculine. There is even a pair of sunglasses clipped to the shirt. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Focus on getting better and we can see where we stand.”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Mycroft had said in the hospital. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His head is starting to throb again. His phone buzzes.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I am downstairs. MH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Okay. See you. SH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He grabs his wallet and leaves the room. Time to collect more data.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>* * *</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s surprised when he sees Mycroft at the back of the Jag. There is no three-piece suit. Whereas Sherlock had opted to dress up, Mycroft had decided to dress down. Simple white shirt with the top button undone and a pair of black slacks. Sherlock sits next to his brother, leaving a healthy space between them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hullo, Mycroft.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Brother mine.” Mycroft turns to look at him. “I didn’t realize that you would dress up for me.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is it… too much?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. Of course not. You look fantastic.” There is a smile on Mycroft’s face reminiscent to the one on his phone wallpaper. His gaze is fond too. And Sherlock finds that he rather likes being looked at like this. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You look good too.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just good?” The smile takes on a teasing quality.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Amazing.” Sherlock finds himself smiling back. And it’s true. His brother looks more approachable in his casual clothes, then in his layers of well… armour. God. That fur though. Sticking out of his shirt. He can’t stop looking at it. Why has he bloody never seen this before? “Where are we going?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A nice little restaurant. I think you will like it.” Mycroft answers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They fall into easy conversation. Superficial, but nice. Sherlock talks about his days with the Watsons, his frustrations with his attention span, concentration and occasional dizzy spells and some of the cases that Lestrade had brought. None had been too exciting, but they hadn’t been brain-numbingly dull either. John makes him go lie down for a while whenever the dizzy spells hit. All of these bloody head injury symptoms are so damned inconvenient. Mycroft talks about the silly goldfish he has to work with, namely the latest American ambassador to the United Kingdom. Such a conversation would have bored him beyond words in 2010, but Sherlock finds himself deriving comfort from such normalcy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah. We are here.” Mycroft says as the driver pulls over to the kerb. “Come, brother.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And when they alight, Sherlock finds himself walking arm-in-arm with his brother down a charming little alleyway before they reach the restaurant.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>* * *</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They are led to a corner of the restaurant. Sherlock has the odd feeling that this part of the glass-walled dining room isn’t meant to be a private area, but with the artful placement of Japanese </span>
  <em>
    <span>shoji</span>
  </em>
  <span> screens, they had managed to create an intimate space. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The dining room itself is more of a terrace, festooned with cascades of roses, sweet peas and tulips. There are even herbs artfully placed, scenting the air with notes of lavender, rosemary, thyme and mint. The flowers spill into the space created by the screens, giving Sherlock the impression that they’ve entered an overgrown greenhouse. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There are candles on their table. Mycroft steps in first and actually pulls a chair out for Sherlock. It’s easily the most romantic space that Sherlock has ever been in. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>This is a date.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The thought idly passes through Sherlock’s mind. Amazing. Maybe he isn’t so crazy after all. So… his paramour after all this time had been… Mycroft? Sherlock shoves the thoughts away. Not the time to start panicking, although somehow the idea of an incestuous, very much illegal relationship doesn’t appear to be distasteful at all to him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That would explain why no one appears to know anything about it. In fact, to be honest, he’s more hurt by his brother’s neglect of him over the last few days. He will let Mycroft wine and dine him and see how it goes. That’s what dating is for, after all. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Their server enters their cozy area with glasses of water and a pair of menus. Sherlock immediately pushes his menus to his brother, who simply nods. Mycroft knows what he likes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s also strange too – seeing the waitstaff go around with masks. John had filled him in with more details of the pandemic over the previous week. Such as how most people have gotten vaccinated by now – including himself. The details of the quarantine! The incompetence of the government. The PM catching the virus! The rampart misinformation. And the travel bans! It had sounded like a plot of a bad sci-fi novel. One where people would have scoffed at it and said it was ridiculous. Really. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He finds himself asking. “How did I not go crazy during the quarantine, Mycroft?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His brother smiles sadly at him. And Sherlock knows. God. He didn’t spend it at Baker Street – he spent it at Mycroft’s! </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had asked John that question too, and his flatmate had said that they had managed to cope. Yeah. They had managed to cope because Sherlock had not been there to wind them up! Hm. Oh for fuck’s sake. He didn’t actually live at Baker Street these days right? That would make so much more sense. That’s why his room hadn’t felt right. It hadn’t been his room in a long time. Mycroft had realized Sherlock had lost all of his memories and probably asked the Watsons to take him back. Sent a couple of henchmen to renovate what was Rosie’s room back into his room. Maybe even paid the Watsons for their inconvenience. That’s why Rosie had said. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“You visit!”</span>
  </em>
  <span> on the first day. God. He’s been so slow. So many clues that he had missed…!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was with you, wasn’t I?” Sherlock leans forward, and on a whim he intertwines one of his legs with his brother’s. Now this feels right. Being in physical contact with Mycroft. “You kept me… busy.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft actually blushes. It’s a beautiful colour. His brother asks. “So – you’ve figured it out?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.” Sherlock nods. “I think so.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t… object?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“As in I am about to run out of here screaming? No. But I am upset. Even though my first sentence to you was nasty as hell upon awakening – I think I deserved better than you staying away from me for the entire week or so, Mycroft. I was so confused.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am sorry, Lock.” Mycroft reaches over to take his hand. “You did deserve better.” His brother looks vulnerable, lit by the flickers of the candlelight. “I was afraid. I didn’t want to say it outright because I was afraid you might have thought that it was a sick joke of sorts. And I thought in the case that you did forget completely about our relationship, it might have been better for you to –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mycroft. No. Please. Don’t.” Sherlock sighs, beginning to realize how complicated the nature of their relationship is. “We were happy, weren’t we? Tell me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Very happy.” Mycroft says firmly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s all I wanted to know. Don’t be noble about this. I hate it when you are. Doing what you think is best for me without letting me pick my own poisons.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Their waitress comes in, and Sherlock watches Mycroft order for them both. Even with this revelation, he doesn’t remember a single thing that they had done together as a couple. It saddens him. He could only imagine what Mycroft had felt when he had told him to ‘piss off’. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His brother who had sat vigil beside Sherlock’s hospital bed whenever he could over the past few weeks. Holding his hand. Sherlock hadn’t been hallucinating about that. Mycroft stroking his curls. Pecks on the cheek. Talking to him. Mycroft would be the type. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Probably even bloody cried over him too. More than once. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When she leaves, Sherlock asks another question. “How long had we been together?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“More than three years, Lock.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His hand is back in Mycroft’s. His brother’s fingers caress the creases of his palm, tracing the lines. He can’t stop looking at the sight of their connected hands. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wow. So long. Mrs. Hudson’s words had been an understatement.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How… did we get together?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I… uh. Got shot.” Mycroft admits. “Assasination attempt. Not the first time it’s happened. We do have matching scars though as a result.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do we?” Sherlock is shocked. But it made sense, considering Mycroft’s considerable hold over certain facets of the British government. Despite being a shadowy entity, there must have been people who had suspected that Mycroft had pulled certain unpopular strings. “God. 2010 me never knew…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I never told you. I’ve been poisoned. Been shot at twice now. The first time my agents disarmed the assassin before they could actually do damage. I disarmed a machete-wielding idiot when I was down in Lima for a conference. Still have the scars from that. That I think was a wrong-place wrong-time kind of scenario. Nothing since the last shot though. But, I’ve significantly reduced the workload I have these days. Only the critical projects get placed in my hand now. My life is a lot less busy than it used to be.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My…” Sherlock is speechless. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That was your reaction when I first told you. Anthea told you about the shooting, fearing that I might actually pass. Against my wishes. Mind you. You…” Mycroft looks touched. “Refused to leave my side when they took me out of the operating theatre. Insisted that you would play nursemaid for me, rather than Mummy. You moved in. And you never left.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His brother subconsciously points to his own heart, and Sherlock feels a rush of affection for Mycroft that he had never felt before. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Does anyone know –?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft shakes his head. “No. Not that I am aware of. Mummy has her suspicions. Your Dr. Watson had gotten swept up in his then-girlfriend and had taken your offer of moving out without questioning it as he had been about to propose. The official story revolves around that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah. That I was moving out to be considerate.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Precisely. And that you found in me a tolerable housemate.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Their cocktails come: a whiskey-based </span>
  <em>
    <span>Play the Pyramid</span>
  </em>
  <span> for Mycroft and a </span>
  <em>
    <span>Bloomsbury Blush</span>
  </em>
  <span> for himself. He picks up the cocktail and sips at it, savouring its floral notes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ah. It’s one of his secret indulgences – flowery cocktails. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh good. I would like to be out of Baker Street before the baby pops out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft grins. “That can be arranged.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His brother holds his tumbler daintily(?) in his hands. God. Mycroft has very nice fingers that would look even nicer wrapped around his – oh god. He had unintentionally wanked to Mycroft, didn’t he? Over the last few days? His tall, generously hung, hirsute but faceless man? Fascinating. Fill in the facial details of Mycroft, and his fantasy-lover looks like him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You tried to replicate my sock index.” Sherlock hastily changes his track of thought.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No one, little brother, will ever understand how you organize your socks…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s perfectly logical!” Sherlock pouts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft laughs. Sherlock takes in the sight. Somehow, he has the feeling that if they weren’t in such a public space, his brother would have leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Their appetizers come: a basket of fresh bread, cerignola green olives, truffle-wild mushroom-mozzarella arancini and cajun chicken skewers. Sherlock helps himself to some bread, buttering it generously while his brother goes for an arancini. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We must have eaten our way through many a restaurant by now!” Sherlock muses, and quickly adds. “Not a diet joke.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know. But surprisingly, not as much as you think.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You… um. Cooked for me a lot when I was an invalid. And you –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Continued to do so afterwards! Oh. Shit. I don’t even know how to cook. The last time I remember doing so, I forgot all about it and set the flat on fire. John told me off.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You looked rather fetching in that apron – ouch!” Mycroft winces when Sherlock kicks him under the table. He then adds forlornly. “I missed your cooking.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Really? Is that it?” Sherlock says as playfully as he could. “You keep me around to keep you fed? The next thing you will be telling me is how good I look in a housemaid costume…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anything looks good on you, Lock.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mm… what dish did you like the most from my cooking?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You do this chicken… I think you called it the summer-in-winter chicken? I just call it </span>
  <em>
    <span>the </span>
  </em>
  <span>chicken dish. It’s really good. And there was one time where you had a Chinese client and she paid you in her secret recipes. Those were amazing. You sometimes bake too. For special occasions. Or when you are bored.” Mycroft then admits. “I gained so much weight during quarantine because of you. You made everything. Cakes, brownies, squares, rolls, biscuits, pies, tarts, trifles, doughnuts, buns, baos – if it existed, you made it. I only finally lost it all when you fell out of that window. If you have any fat jokes to get out of the system, now is the time.” His brother offers, but a twinkle in his eye tells Sherlock that this is all in good fun. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. None. Guess I will have to start thinking of ways to fatten you up again then.” Sherlock smirks, and winces when Mycroft kicks him under the table. “Certainly is a better hobby than driving you crazy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You drive me crazy all the time.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good. Nice to know that not everything has changed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ha.” Mycroft pops an olive into his mouth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock takes a few moments to eat. He quite likes the arancini. Hm. Maybe he can reverse-engineer it. He can’t quite imagine it though. Him. Baking?  He smiles at the image of swatting Mycroft’s thieving hand away with a spatula. It’s probably happened. After all in his youth, his brother had a penchant of casually wandering about Mummy’s kitchen and stealing bites here and there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You favourite moment then? Of our relationship?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft looks pensive. “I wouldn’t even know what to say –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It was that awful?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. It was that amazing. I never thought I could have that… Never thought that there would be anyone on this planet for me. You know how we are. I pretend to tolerate the goldfish, and you – with a few exceptions – don’t tolerate them at all. Getting to wake up in your arms. Eating together after a long day. Just seeing you happy. Going away with you. When you told me…” Mycroft trails off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock could finish that sentence. His brother’s eyes are shining with unshed tears. God. This is awful. Of course. They had been in a relationship for three years. He had loved his brother. Obviously. He just can’t remember. It’s frustrating. What if he never gets his memories back? That fear prickles in his chest. It’s not the first time that the thought had come to mind. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“God. I am sorry, Lock.” Mycroft rubs at his eyes with the back of his hand. “Didn’t mean to –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. Don’t. It’s okay.” Sherlock says quietly. “It’s okay to cry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know. I mean if this is a first date… it’s a bit of a red flag, no? Weeping about the ex?”Mycroft tries to inject some levity into the mood. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“God.” Sherlock laughs at this. Had Mycroft always been this funny? “It’s absolutely absurd. You’ve been talking about the ex the entire time!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, I am sorry. What do you do for a living?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Apparently I fall out of windows while attempting to clean house, as they say.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Their server returns, with their main dishes – a grass fed hereford fillet steak with Béarnaise sauce and chips for him, and Mycroft had opted for the roasted cod with wilted greens, surf clams and buttered mushrooms. Sherlock knows that Mycroft had spent at least a minute debating between the cod and the beer-battered fish &amp; chips. The latter being his brother’s guilty pleasure since he had been a child. He will let his brother pilfer some of his chips, and Mycroft will let him sample his dish in return. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hm. He remembers John complaining about his girlfriends stealing his chips… </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cleaning house, you say? You would look good on your hands and knees, scrubbing the floors –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock manages to make eye-contact again with his brother and they burst out giggling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But seriously…” Mycroft starts cutting up his fillet of cod. “I think you liked looking after me. Maid and nurse jokes aside.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I must have. If I ended up staying...” Sherlock nods slowly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Time elapses as they work through their dishes, the only sounds being the scrapes of their forks and knives against the plates, light background music and faraway chatter of other fellow diners. The steak melts in his mouth. A lovely treat after eating the bland fare that Sophie prepares. And then he asks tentatively. “What if I never get my memories back?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft reaches over, gently grabbing Sherlock’s wrist, as his hand is still holding his knife. “I thought about that. It’s alright, you know. No pressure. It’s none of our faults. I mean – of course, it’s an absolute tragedy, but we must carry on. I will always remember how you were and how our relationship was like, but we can always make new memories, couldn’t we? With the present you? New firsts. If that’s what you want, dearest mine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is where Sherlock breaks down. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s felt so lost over the last days. Thinking that he had a lover who had possibly abandoned him. But really, Mycroft had been trying his best to protect their relationship – brotherly or otherwise – while attempting to keep himself in one piece. He doesn’t need Mycroft to tell him that he loves him, because that’s painfully obvious in the way Mycroft touches him. The way he looks at him. In the words he had just said. The tone behind the pet names. He knows it, even if he has no memories of ever having been loved before like this. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come here, darling.” Mycroft says, standing up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock meets him halfway and his brother’s arms envelop him. Mycroft’s scent surrounds him, calming notes of his expensive cologne, their dinner, his masculine musk. He sobs into Mycroft’s shoulder, and his brother tenderly strokes his back with his palms, while bestowing a kiss against Sherlock’s forehead. It’s sweet. Something that Mycroft has probably done for him whenever past-him had gotten upset. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am just happy that you are alive. And otherwise well. Everything else is extra.” Mycroft whispers, rocking him slowly.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Can I… can I come home with you?” Sherlock asks as they stroll through the park in Mycroft’s neighbourhood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So forward on a first date…” His brother chuckles, stopping to lean against an English oak. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a nice autumn day with clear skies. The sun is setting. The dying rays cast purples, oranges and yellows against Mycroft, lending his hair a reddish tinge. Intriguing shadows dance against his sunkissed face and exposed chest. His brother looks so handsome like this. So edible. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>How come he had never noticed this before? Sherlock muses. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not really a first date if we’ve been together for so long, My…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He earns a small smile. If he looks too closely, it is tinged with sadness. It is true for every smile he had received this evening. Sherlock finds it depressing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh. He used to call Mycroft that then. My. Not even bothering to finish the first syllable of his brother’s name. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Myc. Mycie?” Sherlock tries out some other truncations. At his brother’s lack of response, he says. “You aren’t going to help me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I want to do what’s organic, Lock. I don’t want to force you into what you were.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe it will help me remember.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe. Or maybe not.” His brother sighs. “You sure you want to try this, Lock?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh. His brother is offering him an out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>No. Sherlock thinks furiously. He doesn’t want to give this up. Not when he knows that he has been happy. That their relationship had worked for them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The neurologist back at the hospital had seemed positive that he would get his memories back. Eventually. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And it’s not like there’s no foundation for this to stand on. He’s attracted to his brother for one thing although he’s highly doubtful that he will get laid anytime soon. </span>
  <em>
    <span>We can always make new memories.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Mycroft had said earlier. And, really – what couple would get a second chance to make new firsts? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s already stepping forward, his hands reaching for his brother’s. Mycroft lets him take them. His body seems to know how to behave around his brother, even if his brain is out to sea. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s nice. Nice to be standing so close to Mycroft. It’s not awkward at all. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock let’s his head fall slightly, letting his forehead lightly touch his brother’s. God. He’s never been so close. So close that he can feel Mycroft’s soft warm breaths brush against his face. Why can’t he bloody remember? He asks himself again, feeling a familiar frustration flare within him. It’s not fair. He closes his eyes, focusing on his own breaths. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Perhaps it’s best to let go then. Accept the paradigm that he would never remember his old memories. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His feet are moving though – to music that Mycroft is quietly humming. He feels one of his brother’s hands settle on his back in a familiar hold. Dance. He’s never danced with his brother before. Or at least this-him had never done so. Sherlock had learned in his Oxford days, one of the few things that had given him joy in life. He’s used to leading; however, he finds himself following Mycroft. Of course, big brother would know how to dance. All those functions with the aristocrats he must have attended! He lets his thoughts dissipate. Getting them out of the way, allowing his body to carry out the choreography that Mycroft had mapped out on the fly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fuck. How was he living without knowing the sensation of this? His brother’s hands exert the lightest changes in pressure, and somehow… his body knows what it is that needs to be done. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Damn. He should have asked his brother to dance with him back in 2010. Instead of bickering and throwing insults. Opportunities to dance with someone who knows what they are doing are so preciously scarce. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He finds himself laughing in delight whenever Mycroft spins him. His body clings naturally onto Mycroft whenever his brother pulls him close. It is intimacy that Sherlock had never dreamed of. The evening breezes whip teasingly around him, messing up his curls. And when the impromptu dance finally comes to an end, Sherlock sags against his brother’s body like a ragdoll. Panting. The exhilaration thrumming in his blood just like his first night with John and the murderous cabbie. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ah. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His brother’s hand slides from his back to the back of his head – into his curls. It’s a comforting touch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you are trying to dissuade me from being with you, Mycroft. You are doing an awful job.” Sherlock murmurs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I never said I wanted to do that, Lock. I just…” Mycroft trails off. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just what?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His brother steps away from him. Just as Sherlock wavers between acceptance and vexation of his loss of memory, it’s clear that Mycroft suffers the same. Rationally his brother may have accepted that they will have to start from scratch, but emotionally – he hasn’t let go. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tell me.” Sherlock prompts. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Want to do right by you. But really I don’t want to let you go.” Mycroft says. “I can’t. You are here. But I miss you. Your body still remembers me. You don’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We danced –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A lot. Even took lessons. It was part of my arduous regimen of physical therapy when I was recovering from being shot. Danced in front of the Queen too. One and only time I took you to a charity banquet as a plus-one.” Mycroft has a faraway look in his eyes. “We decided afterwards to not do that again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why? Did I do something to upset someone?” That would be expected, but there is a niggling sense of disappointment in himself if he had spoiled his brother’s night. All these feelings. They feel so alien. Yet, Sherlock welcomes them. He just doesn’t know where they came from. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ding dong, the functional sociopath Sherlock had labeled himself in the 2000s is truly dead.   </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft shakes his head. “No. It was one of my favourite trips with you, little brother. We mutually decided that it was… too difficult.” There is a different variant of sadness on display on Mycroft’s face. A cold gust of wind picks up, and his brother suggests a moment later. “Let’s go – back to my place.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His brother had wanted to say home. The home of his lost-self. Not that his present-self has a place to call home. Baker Street had felt all wrong. A sham. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock offers his brother his hand and Mycroft takes it. Before they go, Sherlock pulls his brother closer to him. He doesn’t want their first date(?) to end on this note. Fuck. He’s never done any of this for real, but he hopes his body still remembers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tentatively, he brushes his lips lightly against Mycroft’s. They are unexpectedly soft. His brother seems to be frozen on the spot. Before Sherlock could retreat (fearing that this isn’t what his brother had wanted), a hand cups his cheek – stopping him. Mycroft is kissing back, using his hand to guide him. It is tender yet bittersweet and so full of affection(?) that it causes something to ache within Sherlock’s chest. Mycroft drops his hand when they break the kiss, letting it slide over Sherlock’s heart and back to his own side. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not the first kiss of fairy tales. Snow White doesn’t wake up from her cursed sleep. Sherlock does not regain any of his memories. But Sherlock has tasted love and sorrow in that kiss. A love that he had forgotten, but hoped that he could experience with Mycroft again. </span>
  <em>
    <span>We can do this.</span>
  </em>
  <span> He thinks when he makes eye-contact with his brother again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let’s go home.” Sherlock ensnares his arm with his brother’s.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He leads the way in the twilight. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At the very least he knows where </span>
  <em>
    <span>their</span>
  </em>
  <span> house is. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>* * *</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The atmosphere of the house is different from what Sherlock had remembered last. For one thing, it’s cozy and inviting. Of course, there are still Mycroft’s priceless antiques, pieces from his extensive artwork collection (most bought for investment, his arse) and the sound Victorian era furniture that his brother had inherited from Uncle Rudy, but someone had brought in plants, left toys scattered around the living room and there is even a large dartboard hanging on the wall. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A printout of someone is skewered to the board by darts pierced through their face and stomach. Oh. Looks like a member of Lestrade’s team, but it is someone that Sherlock does not know. A new Anderson? Or Donovan? Someone evidently annoying. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s a bit of a mess, little brother.” Mycroft had admitted before they had walked in. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock had shrugged. He had left chaos in his wake back at Baker Street in the days that he remembered. But in consideration to Mycroft’s predilection for order and tidiness, it is a tad jarring to see a less than perfectly tidy room in Mycroft’s house. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well… their house.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Couldn’t bring myself to tidy up. You know. The day you were hospitalized. Didn’t know if these traces are the last I would have from you. Told my housekeeper to leave things as they are.” Mycroft explains, unprompted. “You were looking after Rosie the night before you fell out of that window.” He gestures to the colourful Jenga blocks strewn all over the floor and coffee table. “The Watsons came back later than expected, so that’s why the mess was never cleaned up in the first place –”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>By the tone in Mycroft’s words, Sherlock is certain that this hadn’t been the only reason. Sex. That’s probably what had happened when the door had shut safely behind the Watson trio. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There are other things that had been knocked awry too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock walks slowly over to the couch and picks up a large and plump orange plush that had caught his eye. Goldfish. Its fins and tail are trimmed with white.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Rosie’s?” He asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft actually blushes. The pinkening of his face suits him. Sherlock thinks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s… cute. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s uh… mine.” Mycroft snatches the fish out of Sherlock’s hands. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh. Sherlock simply nods. He doesn’t say anything, seeing the defensive look in his brother’s eyes. Not that he was going to anyway. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Who knew how sentimental Mycroft could be?! Not that he’s one to talk… he has the odd feeling that he had softened and mellowed out greatly in his late thirties. He wonders what is the significance of this stuffed fish. Did he give it to Mycroft? Hm…  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let me show you to your room.” Mycroft says after a long while.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>* * *</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His room is spacious. There’s a neatly made bed. Things that presumably belong to him are organized and arranged tidily. Sherlock might be a disaster, but he likes to keep a clean bedroom. There’s obviously things missing. A large undecorated and discoloured gap on his wall where he deduces that his periodic table normally hangs. His violin. A good chunk of his wardrobe. Absent members of his sock index. Billy. Various knickknacks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft had told him that he would ask his agents to bring back his things from Baker Street tomorrow. He doesn’t own any stuffed animals, but there is a sizable plush red ball with yellow spikes all around it and two big eyes sitting on his desk. </span>
  <em>
    <span>SARS-Cov-2</span>
  </em>
  <span> is what its tag proclaims. Leaving the attenuated virion where he found it, he examines the room for any other evidence of their intertwined lives. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is a large bay window overlooking the backyard. It had been arranged into a cosy nook that Sherlock probably spends his time reading and thinking in. He doubts he sleeps in here often. The modern-styled bed is for show. It’s too untouched. Maybe he had used it at the beginning when he had been looking after Mycroft. When they had still been solely brothers. And maybe on nights where his brother is pissed off at him. Maybe. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Where are all their pictures? Sherlock had seen a few when he had been downstairs. Pictures of himself or Mycroft. Or of the two of them together, but nothing that would trigger anyone’s suspicions that they were </span>
  <em>
    <span>together.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Those scandalous photos must be in Mycroft’s… or rather </span>
  <em>
    <span>their</span>
  </em>
  <span> bedroom. Their bedroom. The idea leaves him feeling faint. Their haven. In a world where they are forced to keep their relationship a secret. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fuck. He would have to find a way to earn himself back into that room. Another task that would require patience. But at least it’s something he could do instead of twiddling his thumbs, waiting for his blasted memory to return. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He finds a stack of paper on his nightstand. He flips through them and finds that they are recipes written in his untidy scrawl. Interesting. So he really did cook. He puts them down. Then he looks through his drawers. Hm. Nothing too interesting. Too bad he hadn’t been the sort to keep a diary. That would be useful. No tips and tricks for wooing and </span>
  <em>
    <span>seducing </span>
  </em>
  <span>the British Government left by his past-self then. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sighing, he decides to go prepare for bed in the adjoining loo after grabbing a set of pyjamas. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>* * *</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“There’s nothing in your kitchen.” Sherlock remarks to Mycroft the next morning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lived on takeaways for weeks, Lock.” Mycroft sighs, looking utterly dejected on a Saturday. “And… it </span>
  <em>
    <span>was </span>
  </em>
  <span>your kitchen more than mine. Let’s go out for brunch then. And we can go to Tesco’s or something on the way back.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This all felt rather domestic. He had thought that John and he had been rather cozy back in 2010 but this is clearly on another level. And when had Mycroft started leaving the suits in his wardrobe? His brother is dressed simply in a turtleneck, a pair of jeans and even trainers. He looks good. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft takes him to a nearby brunch spot close by, walking arm-in-arm to get there. It’s clearly a spot they frequent often. The waitstaff recognize and know them. As Myc and Scott. They are shown a table in a sunny corner. Their usual table judging by how Mycroft walks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His brother orders for the both of them. They start with harmless chatter. The lack of rain this week. Mycroft informs Sherlock that he had originally volunteered to take Rosie for a day or two when the Watson baby comes. But the plan is moot now, and John’s sister would take her instead. God. He must have really been fond of his goddaughter. He had never been the type to be fond of children, but Rosie had grown on him the past week. She had been a pleasant distraction at Baker Street from his problems.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock can’t stop looking at his brother, casting shy glances at him. It’s so different from past interactions. Mycroft isn’t shy at all and gazes at him with open fondness. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I like this.” Mycroft remarks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you like?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How shy you are. It’s a refreshing change.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Really?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes. Really. You were never shy when we got together. But…” Mycroft stops for a moment when their server brings over their breakfast. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A generous pile of pancakes, fruit, whipped cream and pots of syrup and honey is placed in front of Sherlock and a proper English breakfast with smoked salmon as its main is placed in front of his brother. They also get a pot of English Breakfast. Sherlock dives in, happy with this offering to his sweet tooth. Mycroft sips daintily at his tea, while taking bites of toast and eggs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Is everything his brother does so measured and elegant? The way he uses his cutlery. The decibels of his tea sips. How he wipes his mouth with the napkin. A living, breathing entity of etiquette and comportment. It’s… fascinating. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Meanwhile, Sherlock had just spilt some whipped cream onto the table top. Great. He mops it up with a napkin, feeling rather uncharacteristically self-conscious.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But, I think you grew comfortable with me while you were caring for me, dear.” Mycroft picks up from where he had left off. “I guess you had to. It was all rather undignified. I was very weak when I was discharged. I insisted on going home against medical advice…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where have I heard that before?” Sherlock muses playfully.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft winces. “Yes, you never liked to be in hospitals. You whined, pleaded and even attempted escapes. I… understand now. It’s surprisingly not a restful location. People walking into your room at all hours of the night. All the noises of the machines. You were there with me every time I was awake. And even not. Anthea told me later that you hardly ever left. She had to force you to eat and shower. The physicians and Anthea wanted me to stay for several more days to recoup my strength but you… you said it would be okay and…” He swallows, looking down at his breakfast. “You took me home. You had everything set up for me with a bit of help from Anthea and my housekeeper. You changed my dressings. Checked the wounds. Washed me. Cleaned up after me. Fed and watered me. You did everything. Entertained me even. Read the news. The books from my library. We spent hours together. I was… really surprised –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We weren’t on good terms beforehand?” Sherlock deduces. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, Lock. It was just awkward. We were avoiding each other. It’s a long story.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We have time.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe some other time. You… you will be upset. Maybe even mad. I don’t know.” Sherlock has never heard Mycroft sound so unsure of himself. It is probably one of the most unsettling things he’s ever seen. “I kept secrets from you for years. And it almost cost us our lives.” Mycroft almost seems to shrink. His voice grows quiet. “I don’t think I can take that right now. Your anger. The last weeks have been so hard.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I did forgive you.” Sherlock replies after thinking for a moment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Good god, what secrets is Mycroft alluding to? Now he’s very curious. But he understands. It’s something. Seeing Mycroft so emotionally vulnerable. This is a privilege that his old self had earned. It feels wrong somehow to see this. Seeing the pain in his brother’s blue eyes. His brother must have been dying to talk to him. The old him before the accident. Needing support and love. Physical affection. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know. But I think learning it again will be unpleasant. For both of us. I will tell you, I promise. But, please not now.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay.” Sherlock nods. “Then tell me happier things. How did we get together?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft gives him a grateful look. “Slowly. I don’t think either of us were aware of the process until pretty late in the game. It was nice. Just the two of us. You reading me stories. Tempting me with treats. When I grew stronger, you were scheming up ways with my physical therapist to make me move. I just felt tired all the time, Lock – you can imagine it. Being lazy as your younger self would accuse me of. You learned all my exercises from the therapist and we would do them together. You took me to the pool. We took walks outside. That park we were at yesterday –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We went regularly?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes. I took you there yesterday, hoping that –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It would help me remember.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft nods. “Especially that tree –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes. You liked to climb it. Crawl onto its branches. I would be telling you to get down from there, and you would just kiss me silent.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The lower rung of branches had been level at Mycroft’s head. A nice comfortable perch for him to hang onto and kiss big brother. Sherlock will do that next time they go to the park.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We would cuddle a lot. Sitting on the couch watching movies. You insisted on sleeping next to me just in case I needed to use the loo in the middle of the night. Things just got more and more physical. Then you suggested learning how to dance as part of my rehabilitation program. I thought it was going to be more torture, but when I saw you dance, Lock – god, it was the most divine thing I had ever seen. Of course, we both knew the basics, so it wasn’t difficult from a technical standpoint. It was a stamina issue. But. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Mon dieu.</span>
  </em>
  <span> I’ve never seen you look so happy and so carefree. Maybe I ought to realize it then that my feelings had already run so deep, but I just wanted to see you like that over and over again. And knowing that I was the cause of that. It was… such an intoxicating feeling. You were quite confused afterwards about my sudden enthusiasm about physical therapy, but you didn’t complain. And then months later, it just happened.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What happened?” Sherlock asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We kissed. I don’t even remember clearly how it came about. We were in the backyard. It was late summer. August the 28th to be precise. We were laughing over something, and suddenly my lips were against yours. You kissed back. We were both stunned when we parted. Looking very much like the gaping goldfish we had loved to mock. I panicked. I tried to flee, but you grabbed my hand before I could get very far. You said. ‘Don’t be a coward.’.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah. So I wasn’t shy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. Far from it. But you never pushed me to do anything. You were so patient.” Mycroft then whispers. “I loved you so much. It was ridiculous. And I didn’t realize until that pivotal moment.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>God. Sherlock couldn’t imagine it. It seemed like such an alien experience in context of his 2010 memories. But yet, if placed in this situation where he had to look after his brother again, he would. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I missed our anniversary.” He observes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft gives another sad smile. “It was a hard day. I spent it at your bedside. Anthea brought me a slice of cake as an acknowledgement of the date.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She knows?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The only person that knows.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We never talk about it. Anthea and I. But she’s clever and cunning.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mm.” Sherlock nods. “She didn’t like me very much.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She hated how much ‘work’ you added to my plate. And how you affected my moods.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am sorry –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t. Please, Lock. We’ve both done our parts to fuck our relationship up. I am as big of a contributor as you are. Let’s not mince words here. Anthea only sees one perspective without all the facts, after all.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock polishes the rest of his pancakes, and helps himself to Mycroft’s leftovers while washing it down with a cuppa. Hm. He wonders if his brother’s secrets are a contributor to their fucked up brotherly relationship in their young adulthood. It could be. Damn. Mycroft had used an expletive. But he can’t help thinking about the months he had spent looking after Mycroft. It seemed like they had a lot of fun together. But it must have been hard for both of them. Mycroft letting Sherlock take care of him. Sherlock learning this mythical patience that his brother had talked about. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I loved you so much.</span>
  </em>
  <span> The way Mycroft had said it. It had made Sherlock’s own heart ache for something he had never known. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His brother pays the bill, and they walk out of the restaurant. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>* * *</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Sherlock, you moving back out? JW</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Your brother’s agents are here. Packing your stuff. JW</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Yes. I figured that your wife would appreciate the space back again. Mycroft told me where I usually spent my time. We mended our fences. SH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh. Thank you. I am sorry for neglecting you. There is just so much we have to do for the baby before she makes her grand appearance, you know. I am sorry if we made you feel unwelcome in any way. JW</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Rosie already misses you. JW</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You can tell her that I miss her too. SH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s okay. You two were used to your own space. And, you two probably wanted some time to yourselves before the baby pops out. SH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Well. It was the alone time that led to this mess anyways. I was quarantined for an exposure back in December and my wife had already caught the bug, so we figured it was safe to have some alone time. Rosie couldn’t stay with us as she’s never been sick. It was more productive than either of us had expected. JW</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Say no more! SH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You are missing out, you know. JW</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>As you told me many times before, John. Not everyone needs sex! SH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock felt rather hypocritical putting that in the text, but appearances are necessary. Meanwhile, his own libido wouldn’t bloody go away, and working his way into Mycroft’s pants is going to take awhile – he foresees. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s all fine you know. It’s okay to be asexual. JW</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I know that too. Thanks John. SH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Take care. I have to start assembling the nursery now in your old room. Thank god Greg is coming to help. Bloody lifesaver, that man! JW</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Have fun. Ciao. SH</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>* * *</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The next week or so passes quickly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock adapts to living in Mycroft’s house. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Their </span>
  </em>
  <span>house. Neither of them starts any difficult conversations, seeming content to let things be even though Sherlock has so many questions dying to be asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock meets Lestrade in cafés or in Mrs. Hudson’s flat to go over cases every other day. Rosie likes to play nearby and demand bloodthirsty ‘bad-guy’ stories from the both of them that remind Sherlock of the pirate phase of his childhood. What kind of stories has John been telling his daughter anyways for bedtime these days? </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Encyclopedia of Serial Killers?</span>
  </em>
  <span> He has one private case of limited interest that he solves from the comfort of a couch. It had come with a big paycheque to compensate for its dullness. Per Mycroft, it seems that Sherlock had pretty much stopped taking private cases, opting to focus on Lestrade’s and sometimes Gregson’s cases. John had stopped blogging years ago. When Sherlock scrolls through the old blog looking at cases that he has no memory of except for the few at the very beginning, it feels like walking in a graveyard. Or perhaps, a museum. A memorial to a previous life. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft goes to work three days a week, and works from home on the other two. Sherlock would curl up with a book from Mycroft’s extensive library in his private nook and just listen to his brother type away at his laptop or listen to him manipulate Very Important People That Sherlock Pretends To Care About via video-conferencing from his study the next door over. He finds it soothing to hear his brother’s cool and collected voice. Mycroft somehow knows this and deliberately leaves his study door partially open for his benefit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His favourite video conference had been Mycroft’s weekly chat with the Queen. It’s surprisingly laidback and casual, and is reminiscent of a great-Aunt talking to their favourite member of the younger generation in their family. Sherlock had been summoned into the study the first time, and the Queen had asked him about his health and wellbeing. And had looked sadly at him when Sherlock had said he still doesn’t have his memories back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>God. The Queen knows that he lives with Mycroft.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Does the Queen know about us?” Sherlock had asked cautiously after the conference had ended.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not that I am aware of. But she is over ninety-five and still sharper than most of the dullards in Whitehall. If not all.” Mycroft had chuckled. “I’ve been meeting with her regularly since my late twenties, so I would imagine she has me pinned down well by now.” He had then said solemnly. “I was an emotional wreck that was barely managing to hold it together, Lock – over the past few weeks. I canceled the majority of my meetings, or had Anthea sit in them if I couldn’t, but no one would dare shirk an audience with her Majesty. Not even I. It is very possible that she could have picked up on something during these meetings. But she hasn’t said a word about it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They go on long walks. Sherlock had hung from the branches of their special tree and had snogged his brother. While he had climbed the tree, Mycroft had his misgivings and aired them out readily, saying things like ‘don’t you dare fall off and hit your head again’. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock is almost physically recovered, although he gets headaches if he thinks too hard or strains his eyes for too long. He’s not quite ready for legwork yet. Hm… maybe he will consider phasing it out altogether. Because oddly enough in his older (and hopefully wiser) age, he rather likes his quiet domestic life. Be it solving cases from Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen table with Lestrade, having a ‘murder mystery tea party’ with Rosie or hanging about with his brother at home. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>One day, Mycroft and he had even gone to the local pet shelter and Sherlock played with the cats and dogs while his brother looked on fondly. His brother had dropped a donation off before they had left, and Sherlock wonders now and then if they could actually get a pet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock finds himself reaching for his brother’s hand more and more often. He works up the audacity to interrupt his brother’s workdays with spontaneous snogging sessions. And he sees Mycroft struggling with the question of letting Sherlock warm his bed every night. Sherlock hasn’t yet been invited to do so yet. But he knows Mycroft is beginning to crack. In the meanwhile, he wanks quite frequently and has found some dildos in his bedroom that have come in handy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He starts cooking again. Starting off with easy dishes like seafood risotto, pasta, grilled steaks, creamy soup in bread bowls, roasted chicken and simple salads from his own personal recipe collection. It seems that his most recent experiments revolve around food, although there is fascinating data on blood splatter that he had obtained with the help of Lestrade and his new forensic photographer recorded on one of his notebooks before his accident had occurred. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His brother’s eyes had brightened when Sherlock laid out the small and rather humble looking table they use for meals with a nice tablecloth and some of their finer pieces of cutlery and brought out the homemade food from the kitchen for the first time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock finds his recipes for a pumpkin-butterscotch-gingerbread trifle, apple tarts, pumpkin cream puffs and ginger nuts. He spends a Friday afternoon doing his baking. Mycroft starts wandering into the kitchen at irregular intervals under some pretense when the aromas start wafting in the air. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sassily, Sherlock tells his brother to ‘go back to work’, ‘that the Queen would be most highly displeased’ and ‘don’t you have a small country to take over’. He doesn’t hold a spatula, but opts to use a water-soaked towel to chase off marauding fingers. His brother huffs with displeasure whenever he is chased off to his study without purloining any food. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At the end of the workday (Sherlock could tell as Mycroft had taken his waistcoat, tie and other accessories off), his brother marches into the kitchen with a determined gleam in his eye. Sherlock had just put the ginger nuts into the oven with his mitt-covered hands. The pumpkin puffs and the apple tarts are sitting on the counter – still piping hot. The untouched trifles sit in their glass bowls, ready to be devoured. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh no, you don’t!” Sherlock grabs the drying towel from the island, intending on chasing Mycroft away from the pastries before he could burn himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh. And who are you to say I cannot?” Mycroft fixes a stern smouldering(?) gaze at him. He snatches one end of the snapping towel and actually reels Sherlock in toward him. “You’ve been saying no to me all afternoon. I’ve been hard at work all day, little brother – I think I deserve a treat, hm?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Um… they are rather hot…” Sherlock looks at his brother a little helplessly, relinquishing his end of the towel. He’s seen playful Mycroft, gentle Mycroft, caring Mycroft, emotional Mycroft – but not this. Dangerous, on-the-hunt Mycroft. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His brother is walking closer toward him, forcing him back toward the island. There is an absolute feral expression look on his face. God. Sherlock has never seen his brother look so sexual. So hungry. His own heart starts beating a little faster; both excitement and trepidation beginning to circulate in his body. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, if I can’t have pastries, brother dear – I think you will do adequately as a substitute. Mm…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft’s lips meet his own. God. Sherlock is pinned against the island – his brother’s hands resting face down on the marble countertop. This is fucking hot. Lips explore Sherlock’s own, gradually coaxing his mouth open so that a hot tongue could snake its way through the gap and devour him. He gasps when his brother’s torso pushes up against him, and he can feel the hardness of Mycroft press up against his own groin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fuck. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mycroft…” He moans helplessly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shh…” Mycroft pulls away slightly, remembering Sherlock’s lack of experience. “Go with it, brother mine.” His voice is tender. “You have something on your cheek.” His brother smiles, but the heat – the want is still present in his irises. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock shivers when a hot tongue licks at his cheek, tracing his zygomatic arch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mm… sweet.” Mycroft kisses where he had licked. “Seeing you in this apron –” He tugs at the strings at the back. “Being your bratty self –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey –” Sherlock complains, but his lips are immediately occupied by another sensual kiss. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Driving me fucking crazy, brother mine. All bloody afternoon.” Mycroft whispers, his voice pure silk. “Gods. I want you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The apron falls to the ground. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft’s hands gently caress Sherlock’s sensitive sides. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then have me.” Sherlock lets his eyes meet Mycroft’s. He lets his face brush against Mycroft’s. “I want you too.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mm…” Mycroft nuzzles him back. Sherlock instinctively closes his eyes, preferring to savour his brother’s touches. “Tell me what you want, darling.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Want. This. Off.” Sherlock tugs at his brother’s shirt. His fingers clumsily tackle the buttons, threatening to rip them off. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His brother chuckles. “Let me do it. You can take yours off –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock doesn’t need telling twice. He pulls off the old t-shirt that he had chosen to wear, as Mycroft discards his own shirt. Sherlock’s hands immediately find themselves in his brother’s abundant fur, and Mycroft laughs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t remember anything, but you certainly know what you like.” Mycroft grins.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock strokes through the soft fur. He’s been wanting to run his fingers through it since he had first seen it. And the scars. Mycroft hadn’t been kidding. His brother’s abdominal scars mirror his. The gunshot wound on the right side, the thin surgical scar in the middle. Over his brother’s left forearm, there are a few gnarly scars that run the width. Defensive injuries against a machete. Sherlock hooks his free arm around Mycroft’s torso and pulls him closer. He buries his face against his brother’s chest, feeling the hair brush against his cheek. His brother is hugging him now, and Sherlock wants to weep. He feels that he’s been cheated out of all those years of fun and intimacy with Mycroft. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh Lock.” Mycroft presses a kiss against his curls. “It’s alright.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, Lock?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can you show me…” He swallows. Why is this so bloody hard to ask? “Can you love me? Now?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You want to do it here?” Mycroft asks. “It would be much more comfortable upstairs…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I want you now.” Sherlock says, feeling the desperation creep into each syllable. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, okay.” Mycroft acquiesces easily, brushing light little kisses against his face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His brother’s large hands are carefully stroking down Sherlock’s torso, mapping out musculature. There is a delicious hint of nail in his touch. Sherlock whimpers when fingers lightly pinch and pull at his nipples, each in turn – increasing the aching need he feels in his loins. Hands undo his belt and jeans, pulling them down. The clothes end up in a heap on the tiled floor. He moans softly when Mycroft’s hand encircles his prick and starts to steadily pump the needy flesh. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mm… feels so good. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But not enough. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good god, you sure?” Mycroft had caught the thought. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock nods. “Fuck me, My. Dun care if we do it in the kitch – mmm…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His brother is kissing him again, and Sherlock does a double take when they both part and Mycroft already has a lubricant packet in his hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We have a secret stash down here, little brother. Kitchen sex happens quite often. We used to use vegetable oil, but you complained of the smell afterwards.” Mycroft chuckles again, as he works on his own belt and trousers. “But of course, you are free to think that I do have some magic tricks up my sleeves.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock smiles, but he doesn’t say anything. His brother’s cock is standing at attention, so red and hard. For him. It is a beautiful specimen. Large, thick, rising from a thatch of reddish curls – a prick straight out of his wank fantasies. He leans over to kiss his brother’s chest, blowing wet sloppy kisses against his brother’s nubs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft releases a breathy sigh as he rips open the packet, dumping lube on his fingers.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You want this, Lock?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mm.. yes. Yes!” Sherlock almost shouts when his brother’s finger finds where it needs to go, and teases his rim. He sighs when the digit slips in and starts rubbing against his insides. A second finger joins, and his brother starts scissoring.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve been playing with yourself.” Mycroft observes as he feels the initially tight muscles give way easily.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course I have. God.” Sherlock could feel his hips jerk. “I did tell you about my sex drive. Fantasizing about getting fucked. Was surprised that I was such a bottom. God. That’s it. More!”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A half-whimper, half-moan is elicited from him when Mycroft thrusts four digits into his hole, twisting and moving them steadily – causing them to brush against his prostate. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mycroft, please!” Sherlock whines when Mycroft slips his digits out of him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suddenly his brother lifts him up and settles him on the island, before he slicks up his own prick with the remainder of the lube. Sherlock lifts his legs up and wraps them around his brother, just as Mycroft guides his hard cock toward Sherlock’s needy arse. Frissons travel up his peripheral afferents as the glans touches the delicate periphery around his anus.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My…” Sherlock whispers, and his brother looks at him. And he gasps when Mycroft’s cock nudges into his arse, breaches his orifice and slowly pushes its way through Sherlock’s canal. Stretching him so magnificently. His brother’s hands hold onto his hips for leverage, and god – feeling hot turgid flesh slide within him is so much better than his own fingers and the inert silicone dicks that he had been putting up his arse in the previous days. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His brother fucks him slowly, and as Sherlock adjusts to the sensations, he opts to watch Mycroft’s face. There are so many emotions that he can’t quite make out. The affection is clear though, radiating from his brother’s face. The softening of his eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock reaches upward, grabbing onto his brother’s torso, and pulls himself up. He wants to be closer. His brother whines a bit with the change in angle, but adapts – shifting his hands slightly upwards onto Sherlock’s back to support him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not just the tension that seems to grow more and more taut with every thrust, but there’s a warmth that seems to spread throughout Sherlock’s body. Like a physical manifestation of affection. Of love. He rests his head against his brother’s shoulder, feeling Mycroft pick up the pace of his hipwork. His own prick is trapped between them, achingly hard and leaking, but he just wants this to last. This bubble – or rather cocoon of fuzzy feelings. Augmented by the enticing smell of baking ginger nuts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft twists his head slightly to kiss Sherlock’s cheek. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I love you.” Mycroft says. “It doesn’t matter if you don’t remember. You are still </span>
  <em>
    <span>you,</span>
  </em>
  <span> brother mine. All I can say is that I am glad that you chose me again. God. Shit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft is weeping softly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My…” Sherlock finds himself uttering rather hopelessly. He’s rather useless when it comes to tears. “Mycie.” He tries again, only to moan in appreciation when his brother inadvertently shifts the angle, causing his prick to rock against Sherlock’s sweet spot in such a delightful way. “Fuck. So good. I adore you, Mycroft. I only wish I could remember. But, I am learning.” He turns his head slightly so that he is talking directly into his brother’s ear. “You are my favourite person in the world.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gets a wry smile in return. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Getting close, little brother?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. God. More.” Sherlock holds on tighter as Mycroft thrusts just a bit faster and a bit harder. His own breathing is becoming rather stilted to his own ears. “Fuck, this feels amazing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It does, doesn’t it?” His brother’s smile grows larger. “You can touch yourself, if you want.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock does, wrapping his digits around his cock, frigging himself at the exact same rate he is getting fucked. As he nears the precipice, he breathes noisily. “Oh god, oh my god, I am going to –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He spills, feeling his rear end spasm and clamp down against Mycroft’s cock. His entire body arcs in pleasure. The unfamiliar, but incredible sensations threatening to obliterate him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fuck. Wanking pales in comparison. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His brother cums moments later – Sherlock’s muscles milking him for all he’s worth. It’s incredible to see the orgasm hit his brother, like a tidal wave crashing onto him. Watching the ripples of intense pleasure course throughout his body. Taking apart the man formerly known as the ‘Iceman’ and revealing the human vulnerability that exists. How could Sherlock not love his brother? Seeing him so beautifully undone like this. They collapse upon each other. Sherlock feeling like all his bones had turned to rubber.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I love you.” Sherlock mutters.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft actually giggles. Moments later, he says – his voice still sluggish. “Even goldfish know not to take the word of a person in the throes of post-coital bliss, little brother mine.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mm… take it or leave it.” Sherlock smiles, looking up at his brother. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft bends his neck slightly to kiss him again. This could never be boring. Sherlock thinks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The oven dings. Mm… gingernuts. Sherlock could only hope that they taste as good, if not better than Mrs. Hudson’s.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I will take it.” Mycroft says quietly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The tone his brother says it in makes Sherlock feel like his heart is fracturing again. Poor Mycie. He thinks. Time. Sherlock knows it is needed. For him to fall in love with Mycroft again. With every day that passes, Sherlock despairs at ever regaining his lost decade. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shakes his head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let’s go clean up, brother mine.” Sherlock suggests gently, feeling the spunk dribble out of his arse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, Lock.” Mycroft helps him down from the island. He grabs a wipe from a nearby drawer and starts cleaning the marble surface. “May I inquire as to what is for dinner?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think we better order out, and save some room for dessert. What do you think?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whatever you want, Lock.” Mycroft kisses him again, before filching a pumpkin cream puff from the baking tray. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock watches as his brother happily bites into the treat. It must be up to his old standards then, judging by the contented look on Mycroft’s face. Ah. No wonder he had started baking...</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>* * * </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Goodnight then, brother mine.” Sherlock kisses his brother’s cheek on the landing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Um. Sherlock. Why don’t you…” Mycroft looks surprisingly nervous. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A frisson of excitement seems to travel up Sherlock’s spine. God. Is his brother cracking? His own heart is starting to race. He patiently waits for Mycroft to finish, knowing that the words all need to come from him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why don’t you join me?”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“You sure?” Sherlock reaches for his brother’s hands, letting his fingers intertwine with his. </p><p>“Yes. I miss having you in my bed.” Mycroft admits. “Not necessarily for the sex, but I miss sharing it with you.” He then admits rather sheepishly. “I didn’t sleep in the bed while you were in the hospital. The few times I was home. I spent it in another guest room. Couldn’t bear it. Come, little brother.” He tugs at Sherlock’s hands, and he goes readily. </p><p>Mycroft reluctantly releases one of Sherlock’s hands to open the door of the master bedroom. </p><p>Sherlock hasn’t seen this room yet. It is a modernly furnished space. There are two comfy armchairs to one side of the room – a cozy space for a nightcap. There is, of course, a king-sized bed. There is a walk-in closet and an adjoining loo. The goldfish that he had seen days ago is resting on what is presumably Mycroft’s side of the bed, next to the pillows. And the photos! So many of them! Hanging on the walls and standing upright on the surfaces of tables, wardrobes and night stands. There is even an oil-painting (surprisingly amateur, but the artist possesses some talent) on the wall, depicting a turbulent sea, with the sky touched by Aurora Borealis. Sherlock eagerly leaves his brother, wanting to soak up all the data. </p><p>His eyes are drawn to the photographs. Real evidence that they’ve been together for so long. He doesn’t even recognize himself in the images. He looks too happy. Some of them must have been candid shots, as there is one of him laughing with his mouth wide open. </p><p>They’ve traveled. Them drinking champagne high up in the sky – with what looked like the skyline of New York City in the background. The two of them dressed in old-fashioned Spanish attire, dancing in what appears to be a dimly lit Old World palace. Mycroft’s shirt has flared sleeves, and he’s wearing a bright red sash, while Sherlock is wearing black with red accents. There are slits on the side of his billowy trousers – exposing the red interior. Guess it's to make up for not wearing a dress – Sherlock muses. He can almost hear the guitar music strumming in the background. Another picture of Sherlock holding a king crab that they would feast on later in a patio. Them watching the Northern Lights, the sea reminiscent of the one in the painting. Hm. Sherlock takes a closer at the painting, and notes that his signature is on the corner. </p><p>“Your one and only attempt at oil paints during quarantine, brother mine. You were quite frustrated that you couldn’t replicate what you saw in your mind.” </p><p>“Oh.” </p><p>“You wanted to bin it, but I refused to let you do so.”</p><p>Damn. He still wants to bin it. It’s too much like Rosie’s drawings that Sophie hangs on the fridge. He had learned to paint in his youth, but certainly – this is not <em> fine </em>art by any means. </p><p>There is another photo of them in their Spanish finery, but they are wearing white masks that obscure their identities, and standing in front of a red coffin and three skeletons hanging in the air. Macabre. Sherlock rather likes the atmosphere. </p><p>“We went to Madrid in our first year together. That’s from what is called an immersive theatre experience – Tacones Manoli. We also took some flamenco lessons and danced in a private party while we were there. It was highly enjoyable. Did a trip to Portugal afterwards.” Mycroft smiles. “We had a lot of fun together, Lock.” He adds when Sherlock picks up another framed photo of the two of them kissing on horseback with a beach as the backdrop. He then sighs. “I haven’t gotten around to organizing the photos from our trip to Italy and Germany in July. But, yes there’s also pictures of us in London.” He nods as Sherlock pays attention to another of them standing on Primrose Hill, next to a selfie of them kissing in the backyard on what looked like a colourful autumn day.</p><p>“We should go away again.” Sherlock says, wanting to see what vacation-Mycroft is like. </p><p>“We could. Maybe up north? A cozy little cottage or inn. Far away enough that we could behave as we are. Although you did want to be around when the second Watson baby comes, little brother.” </p><p>“When is her due date anyways?”</p><p>“You told me some time next week. Any day now. Really.” Mycroft climbs into bed.</p><p>Sherlock joins him, sneaking under the comfortable blankets. “You don’t go to Baker Street these days except to come pick me up.”</p><p>“Yes, little brother. We agreed upon it. That you would keep your social life separate from your lovelife.” </p><p>“It’s to prevent other people from finding out, right? About us?” Sherlock stretches his left leg out and places it on top of one of Mycroft’s. </p><p>Mycroft turns to face him, nodding. “It’s worked pretty well over the last three years. Besides, I am happy having you to myself during the time I do spend with you.”</p><p>“Mycroft.” Sherlock reaches over to switch on a lamp when Mycroft uses a remote to turn off the lights of the crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling. He decides today would be the day to ask. “Tell me about why it was so awkward between us before we were together.”</p><p>“You want that ghastly tale now?”</p><p>Sherlock nods. “I want to know, My.” </p><p>And his brother speaks. </p><p>A shocking tale. A sister that he had completely forgotten the existence of. A dog that wasn’t a dog, but rather a little boy. Sherlock’s best friend. Yellowbeard. Of wells and arson. A secret that Uncle Rudy had kept and let Mycroft in on it when his health had taken a turn for the worse. </p><p>God. A thankless job, keeping his siblings in check – Sherlock thinks. Of Moriarty and his five minutes with the East Wind. Of how the mastermind had died and taken Sherlock with him, metaphorically. Mycroft’s deep regrets regarding how preventable everything had been. Of his return, and his deteriorating relationship with John. His brother didn’t mince words, and Sherlock could almost feel the despair in Mycroft when he talked about Magnussen and Culverton Smith. Getting involved in things that he shouldn’t have been involved in. For John’s first wife who had shot him. </p><p>It all seems so fantastical. </p><p>And Sherlock has a feeling that Mycroft doesn’t show himself around Baker Street these days because he has an urge to knock John down a few pegs. Maybe with his fists. And. Fuck. The climax. Sherrinford. Clowns. Eurus’ circus. The final problem. His sister’s jealousy. Hatred. Sherlock’s choice. Mycroft’s decision to sacrifice himself. Sherlock’s refusal to let him do so. Good god. No wonder things had become awkward. Mycroft wallowing in guilt and confusion about Sherlock’s solution. Sherlock dealing with the buried truth, the return of old memories and Mycroft’s choice. But Sherlock knows that there had been love in the choice that his brother had chosen, even if Mycroft hadn’t known it then in the form they now experience. And love, perhaps in his own choice. There is no way he would ever kill his brother. He would rather off himself. A hint – perhaps a preview – of what their relationship would be in the years to come.</p><p>Sherlock isn’t angry. Just sad. Sad that his brother had to carry the burdens alone. Sad that his brother had always cared for him, and he had thrown it back in his face time and time again in his aimless youth. Disappointed that he had been willing to go so far to salvage his relationship with John. He hadn’t exactly been someone that Mycroft could rely on back in those days. Not to the point where he would entrust such family skeletons to him. And there is the fact that his brother had wanted to spare his parents and Sherlock the pain. </p><p>He also understands. The rift that seems to have come between them. Between John and himself. They would be friends, but the closeness that Sherlock had enjoyed in 2010 would never return. Too much history.</p><p>And there is Lestrade. Who apparently Sherlock had been calling him by his actual moniker these days. Greg. They are supposedly good friends. The detective inspector had laughed when Sherlock had called him Lestrade when they had met in Baker Street after his discharge from the hospital. And laughed even harder that Sherlock thought he would pass out and need to be hospitalized himself when Sherlock had said “You are taking the piss.” when the copper had said that they go to the pub together on a semi-regular basis. </p><p>Apparently he does that these days. Lestrade would have his fancy microbrews and Sherlock would have his cocktails. There may or may not be footie on, not that Sherlock cares. But he would always root obnoxiously for whoever Lestrade does not want to win. That had explained why Sherlock had a Liverpool scarf and a Gerrard kit in his bedroom. He had worn them to piss Lestrade off. And John too. Two birds. One stone. But then again, he had spent the effort to procure these items and to learn about the sport, so perhaps Lestrade had the last laugh after all…</p><p>“You aren’t… angry?” Mycroft asks tentatively after a long moment has passed. </p><p>“No.” Sherlock shakes his head. He sees the visible relief on Mycroft’s face. “I mean it’s a shock. But, it hasn’t been easy. For you. And also I am rather detached from a lot of this business, since I cannot recollect the experiences that you’ve told me about. I am a listener to this startling tale. A third-party. I am glad that Moriarty is gone, but rather surprised that you didn’t connect the dots between sister dear and Moriarty. Two elements of chaos.” </p><p>“Sometimes, brother dear, the smartest of men will miss what is directly in front of them.” Mycroft replies, rather humbly. </p><p>“So… how is sister dear?”</p><p>“Dead.” Mycroft says seriously, letting his hand hold onto Sherlock’s. “Suicide. She managed to smuggle some poison into her cell and dosed her tea shortly after we got together. Perhaps it is bad to say, but I was relieved when I heard the news…” </p><p>“It wasn’t your doing, wasn’t it?” Sherlock inquires carefully.</p><p>“I knew of the poison she was trying to get. I didn’t do anything to stop her, if that’s what you mean. In fact I facilitated it. The security around her is rather tight, and also – rather costly. None of us have been visiting her, you see. You went a couple of times after Sherrinford, but gave up a few months later. Mummy and Father kept going until the end.” Mycroft then says thoughtfully. “I think she wanted my attention, knowing that I would know of what she was doing, but I tire of her games. I refused to be baited. Mummy was absolutely devastated. We had a funeral. I decided to incinerate her body to make sure she was absolutely dead before we flew her off the island. Mummy was of course – furious as this deviates from the family traditions, but I didn’t want to take any chances. She took the ashes home.”</p><p>“I think it was the right thing to do.”</p><p>“I think so too. There were other pressures of course. After her plot at Sherrinford failed, she was rather catatonic. In the old days, she would analyze data and look for patterns and threats of international significance, but she no longer wished to do so. My colleagues were looking for ways to justify the cost of her existence, as she had lost her use. And at the last meeting where sister dear was discussed, the topic of euthanasia was brought up. Not that the words were spoken, but it was unmistakable that this was the way they had wished to proceed. Never mind that the death penalty doesn’t exist anymore in this country, but when it comes to the higher echelons of power, rules and morals for the proletariat are disregarded.”</p><p>“You don’t have to explain that to me, brother. I know what happens.” Sherlock had seen it for himself after all, whenever he had gotten involved in the cases with the Royalty or the MI5/6 in his younger days. If one is rich enough, or well-connected enough – they could get away with anything. It doesn’t even matter what country they are in. It’s disgusting and most disturbing the things people have gotten away with, yet Sherlock knows that he has been the recipient of such leniency in the past. “Perhaps she knew what awaits her, and took an out on her own terms.”</p><p>“Perhaps.” Mycroft smiles a dangerous little smile. “But knowing her, she might have liked to play a little game before that. She might have liked to take all of us with her. Who knows.”</p><p>Sherlock curls up against his brother after turning off the lamplight. His brother’s fingers comb gently through his curls, and he practically purrs. It’s nice. Sharing a bed. “I like this.” He says. “Having a little conversation… sharing state secrets, some cuddling…”</p><p>“Mm… sometimes we have sex too.”</p><p>“You offering?”</p><p>“It’s already two in the morning, Lock. We could indulge in the morning. I do enjoy our lazy weekend lie-ins together, dearest mine.”</p><p>“Mm… that sounds lovely.” Sherlock yawns, reaching over to spoon his brother. He isn’t sure that this is how they usually sleep, but it certainly felt right. Especially after Mycroft wiggles a bit in his arms, making the position more comfortable for the both of them.</p><p>“Night, Lock.”</p><p>“Thank you. You know. For everything.” Sherlock could hear the sleepiness in his voice.</p><p>“Anytime. Always.”  </p><p> </p><p>* * *</p><p> </p><p>Intriguingly enough, as more days pass – it really does feel like that the two of them had been together for years. Even though Sherlock himself still has no memory of their time together before his accident. It’s easier to accept that he won’t regain his memories as time goes by – the time allowing him to fill the void with new memories. </p><p>They go for a tramp in the local park, arm-in-arm. Hand-holding would be too much for the British public, but Mycroft says that they’ve been going around like this ever since he’s been recovering from his gunshot wound. No one around them makes any fuss. </p><p>The leaves are changing – their green pigment breaking down. The canopies become a vibrant yellow-orange-red. Little piles of leaves are scattered here and there, lending a musky-sweet smell in the air as they decompose. They come here several times a week. After Mycroft’s work. In the morning before Sherlock heads out to help Lestrade with his cases. On the weekends in lieu of better date ideas. </p><p>There are lots of dense groves in the park. Precious places that Sherlock could hold his brother’s hand for a moment, or share a kiss or two. It makes him sad that he cannot be as openly affectionate with Mycroft as he likes, but it is what it is. He had never imagined that he would be the type for physical demonstrations of affection, but then again – he had always been a sensual creature. A possessive one. </p><p>His brother always gives him a pained smile when Sherlock’s thoughts run along those melancholic trails of thought. </p><p>“We do enough public affection when we go away, little brother.” Mycroft says in a firm tone that makes Sherlock suspect that Mycroft hasn’t finished convincing himself of the fact despite their years together. </p><p>“Um-hum…” Sherlock nods unconvincingly. He then adds. “Blasted Watson baby, still wanting to stay in her womb.” </p><p>“Stubbornness that overstays its welcome is a Watson trait.” </p><p>“Mm…” Sherlock gives his brother a quick peck on the cheek. “Well, she better come soon. I want to take you away where no one will find us.”</p><p>“Ha. That’s my thing.” Mycroft is amused. </p><p>“I do learn from the best, My. Let’s go to Tesco’s on the way back. Want to buy pumpkins. I don’t know why, but I feel an urge to carve some up. Roast its seeds. And buy a Honeynut for pie-making.”</p><p>Mycroft’s smile grows larger. “I would like a roasted stuffed bird. It would be nice at this time of year, Lock.”</p><p>“Goose, duck – chicken? Turkey is too much for the two of us –”</p><p>They continue chatting about the menu for next week as they walk toward the local Tesco’s. </p><p>When they get there, Sherlock pulls a cart and they start browsing the produce. This is so oddly domestic. Cosy. He wonders what John would say. There had been a long stretch of time in Sherlock’s life where he wouldn’t be caught dead in such places. John had always been forced to deal with the chip-and-pin machines. </p><p>But then again, who really cared? He’s happy and that should be the end of that. </p><p>He picks his pumpkins, stuffing ingredients – a free-range-chicken as there is a sale (not that such penny-pinching is required) and other things that are required for the week. It’s also nice to order Mycroft around – telling him to fetch this, look for that, bag these and his brother obeys without a complaint. Usually with a “Yes, dear.” or if his brother is feeling sassy, “Yes, Your Highness.”. Sherlock had glared at Mycroft when he had replied with “I live to serve.” once. In fact, Mycroft had contentedly walked away and <em> hummed </em> when Sherlock had ordered him about in the shop for the first time. This seems to be a staple of their old life. </p><p>Ah. Such delightful power he holds. </p><p>His phone vibrates, and he takes a peek. Mycroft is off looking for the right teabags, the bread and Sherlock’s favourite honey. </p><p>
  <em> Sophie is in labour. We are leaving for St. Thomas now. JW </em>
</p><p>He texts back.</p><p>
  <em> I will be there. SH </em>
</p><p>He puts his phone away, just as Mycroft comes back.</p><p>“What’s wrong?” Mycroft puts his findings into the cart. </p><p>“The baby is coming.” Sherlock says, calmly. </p><p>“Ah.” Mycroft has his face fixed in a neutral expression.</p><p>Fuck. Sherlock hates it when his brother puts on masks like this. Somehow it’s even worse to see it now than when they hadn’t been together. He puts his hand over Mycroft’s – on top of the handle. Is Mycroft expecting him to dash off now? Like in the old days? No. He will take care of his brother first before he goes running off to see any Watsons. </p><p>Besides, labour takes a good while, anyways.</p><p>“You want ice cream?” Sherlock asks. “With the pie?”</p><p>His brother’s expression softens a tad. “Whatever you think is best, dear.” </p><p>“Okay. Some vanilla bean would do nicely. Perhaps we should hire a cab for home.” Sherlock heads toward the freezers and picks out Mycroft’s favourite brand of ice cream. </p><p>Mycroft pulls out his phone and starts looking for a ride back, looking happier than Sherlock had ever seen him. </p><p> </p><p>* * *</p><p> </p><p>“Mycroft…” Sherlock looks helplessly at his brother, who has him pinned against a wall. </p><p>It’s almost seven now, several hours after John’s initial text. He had made the requested stuffed chicken and gravy, a refreshing watermelon-cucumber-feta salad, mashed potatoes and honey-roasted carrots. Or rather, Mycroft had made the salad as he couldn’t possibly fuck that up. They had finished eating; the delicious leftovers are still sitting on the table and the dirty dishes had been left in the sink. </p><p>Mycroft’s eyes rake across his form. His hands run down Sherlock’s torso from his shoulders to his waist. Slowly. Deliberately. God. Sherlock throws his head back against the wall, letting out a whimper that turns into a needy whine. His brother nibbles at his neck, wetly kissing his way down to Sherlock’s exposed collarbones and coherent thoughts are starting to leave his brain. </p><p>“I do like to thank my cooks, you know – little brother.” Mycroft takes a moment to whisper hotly in Sherlock’s ear. “Properly.” </p><p>“Mmph!” Sherlock is silenced with a kiss before he could even speak. </p><p>His brother’s fingers are now undoing his shirt buttons, letting his palm slide against the exposed flesh. The contact is electrifying, as it had been the first time they had been intimate like this. John’s texts are fading away in his mind.</p><p>
  <em> Are you coming soon? JW </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I am so nervous. JW </em>
</p><p>
  <em> She’s at 4 cm now. Contractions hitting her strong. JW </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I am so glad the pandemic is mostly resolved, or we would be here alone. Molly is already here. JW </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Sherlock? JW </em>
</p><p>Sherlock had replied much later, as he had been cooking with Mycroft. His brother had turned off his phone since they had gone out, and Sherlock tries to show a similar consideration by not looking at his phone when they are together. </p><p>
  <em> I am eating dinner. Will come after. SH </em>
</p><p>
  <em> She’s at 7 cm. If you don’t come soon, you might miss the moment! JW </em>
</p><p>There had been other texts, but really Sherlock finds himself not caring now. His brother had finally unbuttoned the entire shirt, and is now orally exploring his naked front, licking, sucking and kissing his way down. Nipping at nipples. Tonguing his navel. Tracing out his abdominus rectus which is starting to gain a little flab over the last few weeks. Nevertheless, Mycroft shows his appreciation. Sherlock gasps when cool air hits his groin as Mycroft had just dropped his trousers. And he almost screams when a hot mouth takes the majority of his cock in one go. </p><p>God. He will never get used to this, seeing Mycroft performing fellatio. Seeing his lips enveloping his prick. And his brother can even take it when Sherlock fucks into his mouth. In fact, his brother’s hands are cupping his buttocks, urging him to thrust. And Sherlock does. Mycroft had told him that he had never performed oral for anyone before they had gotten together, and Sherlock wishes he remembers their first times. They had both lacked experience. They had both been virgins.  </p><p>Good god. His brother is a mess. Saliva is going everywhere, his eyes are tearing – but Sherlock knows that Mycroft loves this. Loves having his throat fucked. Just as much as Sherlock loved being topped. It had been a big shock to discover this kink of his brother’s. The visual itself is almost enough to do Sherlock in. Seeing the man who talks to the Queen every week on his knees, just taking whatever it is Sherlock is giving to him. The rougher the better. </p><p>He pulls at Mycroft’s hair – and his brother tries to make a noise – sending delicious vibrations through Sherlock’s erect dick and to the rest of his body. And Sherlock keens when his brother slides his fingertip across his crack, brushing suggestively against the orifice and presses just perfectly against the perineum, forcing Sherlock to capitulate – releasing his emissions deep into Mycroft’s throat. He can’t get over that, how neatly Mycroft swallows. His brother pulls out a napkin from one of his pockets and uses it to wipe his face as Sherlock slips his softening prick out of that devilish mouth. </p><p>Mycroft stands up, and steps away. Besides his hair which is sticking up in every possible way, it doesn’t look at all like his brother had been on his knees sucking on a cock for the past few minutes. </p><p>“What about you?” Sherlock asks once he’s managed to recover his wits. </p><p>His brother shrugs nonchalantly – his voice hoarse as a whore’s. Yet still so god-damned dignified. Another thing that Sherlock can’t get over. “Go see the Watsons. Usually I would fuck you afterwards, but we can save that for when you come back, hm?” </p><p>Fuck. His brother is a cunning bastard. </p><p>Mycroft only offers him a satanic smirk, before saying. “You go shower, and I will clean up everything here.” </p><p>Sherlock sighs, but he heads up the stairs to go clean himself up. </p><p> </p><p>* * *  </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, here you are. Where have you been?” John looks at him when Sherlock rushes into the Labour and Delivery unit. “She’s at ten now – going fast. Come on – let’s go to the room.” </p><p>When they get there, Molly is already standing at Sophie’s bedside, holding her hand – while who is presumably Sophie’s own mother is holding the other. Harriet, John’s sister, is sitting on the couch, trying to keep a hold of Rosie – who in her ‘blood and guts’ phase wanted to be in on the action. So… Harriet is sober now. Like Sherlock. The OB/Gyn is already there, coaching Sophie to push. The man doesn’t mince words, saying things like the ‘only baby in this room should be the one coming out’, and ‘come on, come on – push, mother, push!”. </p><p>Well. At least that’s a source of amusement. Sherlock keeps the thought to himself. He doesn’t really want to look at a vagina, but John has already dragged him to the beside, and is clutching Sherlock’s hand so hard – that Sherlock feels that he might need to go downstairs to the A&amp;E himself after this. And he would recommend a shot of Ativan for John too. </p><p>Good god. It’s not like he’s pushing out a baby. </p><p>“Oh – I see the baby’s head!” Molly exclaims – and Harriet is up on her feet with her phone – intending to film the delivery. “She’s coming!”</p><p>Sophie is actively swearing now at John – who is wincing at her words. Thank god, neither himself or his brother could get pregnant – things would get ugly. Sherlock muses. </p><p>But alas, the baby eventually pops out – and lets out a healthy-sounding cry. Oh. Thank the heavens. Sherlock waves his freed hand around – trying to regain circulation as John had gone to cut the umbilical cord. </p><p>He lets himself fade into the background, as everyone goes to coo over the baby after the waiting neonatologist had measured her and decked her out in a toque and swaddled her in blankets in the nearby incubator. Apgars: 8 and 9. She had placed the newborn onto Sophie’s chest for skin-to-skin contact. John had lifted his daughter up, and Sherlock smiles slightly at seeing Rosie looking astonished at the little red-faced bundle. </p><p>Damn. He wishes Myc was here. Alas, it can never be. Mycroft had never had too much interest in Sherlock’s friends apart from ensuring his safety. And, of course – Sherlock will struggle greatly with trying to keep his hands away from his brother. Everything is still so brilliantly new for him, and Mycroft had confided in him a few days ago that it is amazing that they get to rediscover each other again. A silver lining. And that carrot that Mycroft had dangled in front of him before he had left. It’s not just the fucking that he was promised, but he wants to be curled up against his brother in their bed. Having one of their nightly chats. Waking up together and enjoying a slow Sunday morning. </p><p>“Sherlock.” </p><p>It’s Lestrade. The copper had finally shown. The older man smiles fondly at him. </p><p>“Guess I missed the show then.” Lestrade adds with good humour.</p><p>“Wasn’t too bloody until the placenta came out.” </p><p>“Ah.” </p><p>Sherlock knows that Lestrade is thinking about the birth of his two children by his ex. </p><p>“Guess no children for you then?” Lestrade asks. “Molly’s has her sons. John and I have our daughters –”</p><p>“Oh good god, no.” Sherlock shudders at the thought. “The line will end with me.”</p><p>“None for your brother too, then? I guess it makes sense. Your sister.” </p><p>“You know about her?”</p><p>“Yup. You told me about it the day after. But on the exciting day, you told me to go check in on your brother. God. He looked horrid. But he shooed me off in his usual way. We had to close the Garrideb case, if you recall –”</p><p>“Yeah. My brother told me.” </p><p>God. Had he really done that? Sent Lestrade to do his dirty work on that first night instead of going himself? Would Mycroft and he have gotten together earlier if he had gone instead? Who knows. Would it have staved off those months of awkwardness between them? Sherlock had the bizarre feeling that it wasn’t just a secret and guilt that had caused that. But alas, without his original memories and feelings – it’s hard to deduce. </p><p>“You enjoying cohabitation with your brother?”</p><p>Sherlock nods. “It’s surprisingly nice. We keep to ourselves, but we do some things together.”</p><p>“Good. Good.” Lestrade places a hand gently on Sherlock’s arm. “I am glad that you didn’t die on us again.”</p><p>“Me too.” Sherlock smiles. “Greg.”</p><p>The copper beams. “Ah. So you do remember my moniker! I do miss the old you, I have to admit.”</p><p>“I miss the old me too, don’t feel too bad.” Sherlock nods. “But I like my life. The way it is now. Although… it is a little saddening to see that John and I are not as close as we were.” He whispers quietly, as he had been unable to say this to Mycroft, and to John.</p><p>“People grow up. Change. Have families. It took me a while to forgive him –” Greg looks toward John. “After he had pummeled you into a mess years back. He went to a lot of therapy after Sherrinford. A lot of unresolved anger.”</p><p>“Yeah. I know. Waking up one day and finding out that you’ve been having drinks out with the local NSY wanker.”</p><p>“Hey!” Greg is smiling despite his indignant tone. </p><p>“Hey you two.” John comes toward them with the baby. “Meet Isla Meredith Watson.” He settles the bundle in Sherlock’s arms. “Isla, meet your godfather – Sherlock. The greatest man that I’ve ever known.” The last sentence is said quietly. Sherlock can hear the regret in his tone. </p><p>But it’s honest, and he finds it a welcome balm. </p><p>“Let me take a picture. Say cheese!” Greg pulls out his phone and snaps a few, just as Harriet wanders over and does the same, giving Sherlock a feeling of those press conferences he had attended back in the old days. “I will text you a few.” </p><p>Greg takes the baby next, and Sherlock finds his way to the now-unoccupied couch. He looks at the picture that Greg had just sent him, and forwards it to his brother. He’s surprised when his brother sends him a text immediately – another picture. Considering the salacious tone of their parting, Sherlock had expected a suggestive selfie – but no this is a snap of an old colour photograph. </p><p>
  <em> Mummy sent me this when you were in the hospital. MH </em>
</p><p>An impossibly young and chubby Mycroft looking wide-eyed at a swaddled bundle in his own arms. His brother is what? Six? No, seven. His hair had been more red then and abundant. </p><p>
  <em> I adored you at first sight. Or rather, when Mummy put you in my arms and you stopped crying. You looked directly at me and smiled. Perhaps you were too young for it to mean something. Coincidence. But, it meant something to me. MH </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I was lonely before you were born. MH </em>
</p><p>There’s something significant about this last text that Sherlock is not getting. </p><p>An echo from the lost past. </p><p>
  <em> I am lonely when I am not with you. SH </em>
</p><p>Another picture ends up on Sherlock’s phone. They are both a little older now, dressed in the finest styles of the 80s. Sherlock is holding onto his brother’s hand and gazing up at him. They are standing in a garden. He looked no older than four. </p><p>
  <em> This was shortly before you cut your fingers on some thorns, trying to pull out some of Mummy’s roses. She was highly displeased, but I took a pair of shears and cut one for you later. You gave it straight back to me. I pressed it, but it was lost in the fire unfortunately. I think these are the only two photographs that survived of our otherwise happy childhood, and that’s only because Mummy gave them to one of our recently deceased aunts. MH </em>
</p><p>Sherlock saves these precious photos. </p><p>
  <em> I miss you too. MH </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I’ve been planning our trip. Let’s go next week? MH </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Looking forward to it. Where are we going? SH </em>
</p><p>
  <em> It’s a surprise, brother mine. MH </em>
</p><p>“Hey everyone – let’s take a group picture!” Harriet interrupts excitably and Sherlock wearily gets up to join the rest. </p><p> </p><p>* * *</p><p> </p><p>“Sherlock… you are soaked!” Mycroft opens the door before Sherlock could use his key.</p><p>“Good god, you didn’t have to stay up for me.” Sherlock looks at his pyjama clad brother. “It’s what? Almost three in the morning?” He steps onto the welcome mat.</p><p>Mycroft’s eyes widen in surprise. “I see you made some detours after you left St. Thomas. Unless you meant to give them to the Watsons.”</p><p>“Oh no – they are for you. And for our brunch tomorrow. Let’s stay in. It’s going to rain all day anyways.” Sherlock thrusts the wet flowers at Mycroft’s hands. Creamy peach roses, gold cushion and bronze disbud chrysanthemums and bupleurum dominate the bouquet. He also hands over a box containing a variety of sweets from a very high-end bakery. “Turns out 24-hour florists exist in London.” He divests himself of his wet clothes. “I meant for you to wake up to these surprises.” </p><p>Mycroft pulls him into a lingering kiss. Unlike the ones from earlier or rather – yesterday, it is comfortable and sweet – and gives Sherlock a sense that he is <em> home. </em> Home in a sense that Baker Street had never been.</p><p>“You are the best, Lock.” Mycroft says when they part. “Of course I would wait up for you. Especially when the baby was delivered before ten. How long would they make you stay anyways?” He leads Sherlock to the kitchen, where the box of treats are put into the fridge and the flowers unwrapped and placed in a clear but stylish vase. </p><p>“I tried to sneak away, but didn’t manage to do so until Greg left at around midnight.” </p><p>There had been a lot of happy chatter after all the photos had been taken. Sophie’s sister had also shown up with cake and a little bubbly. Isla had apparently been the first baby on Sophie’s side. Sherlock had spent most of it chatting with Greg, a plastic cup of champagne in hand. He had been happy that Greg was there, or it would have been exceptionally dull. </p><p>He had learned why Molly hardly speaks to him these days too. She had been nice to him when she had brought him to Baker Street from the hospital, but has become monosyllabic whenever they had been forced to interact. Greg had told him about the ‘I LOVE YOU’ incident that had happened at Sherrinford that had been the turning point between them. Ironically, it hadn’t even been his fault. Mycroft hadn’t told him that, even though he had talked him through everything else that had happened. Perhaps he had deemed it insignificant? It was definitely a 180 from the Molly he had known back in 2010. It had hurt a little, but ultimately – Sherlock is glad that she has finally moved on from her unhealthy infatuation after so many years. There was only so much mooning from afar that he could take. </p><p>“That’s quite alright. You need another wash, Lock. Don’t want you getting sick, darling.” </p><p>“That’s questionable science, Mycie.” Sherlock shrugs. He stifles a yawn. “I am sure that has been disproven. Douglas. New England Journal of Medicine. If I remember correctly. Before you were born.”</p><p>“Ah. But being cold is thought to depress your immune system, brother dear. It’s not an unreasonable thought. That study used less than 50 people anyhow. Perhaps too little participants to find a true significant answer. It’s easier to prove that a relationship exists rather than not. Come – Lockie – it’s too late to argue about work done in the 1960s. Let’s get ready for bed.” </p><p>Sherlock smiles at the pet name. </p><p>Lockie and Mycie. What a pair they are! </p><p>He lets Mycroft guide him upstairs where a nice hot bath had already been drawn up for him.         </p><p> </p><p>* * *</p><p>      </p><p>“I could drive, My.” Sherlock offers as he shoves their luggage into the rented Jag. “I lost my memories, not my procedural skills.” He shuts the door of the boot with a satisfying slam, and places a basket full of food on the floor behind the front passenger seat. </p><p>“Nice try, Lock.” Mycroft grins widely. He opens the passenger’s door and gestures for Sherlock to sit in. “Come on, let’s go.” </p><p>“I didn’t even know you <em> could </em> drive.” Sherlock crosses his arms when Mycroft settles down in the driver’s seat. </p><p>“Ah. Little brother mine, there were times where I didn’t have minions at my beck and call. I had to do everything myself.” </p><p>“Next thing you will be telling me is that you were in nappies once.” Sherlock remarks as Mycroft pulls out of the driveway. “Don’t tell me that the British Government had to learn how to use the potty like the rest of us plebeians.”</p><p>“Your wit is rather sharp today, Lockie. Careful that you don’t cut yourself on it. Now, I hope you used the potty yourself as we have a very long drive ahead of us.”</p><p>“Hmph.” Sherlock turns pointedly to look out the window, hiding his smile. It’s nice that his brother would entertain his low-brow hits that John and he would trade back in the old days. But then again, loo humour is always a classic. “We will see who has to use the loo first…”</p><p>“Childish.”</p><p>“Think the word you are looking for is <em> brat. </em>It’s my preferred classification.”</p><p>“Childish brat. And don’t sulk, it’s unbecoming.”</p><p>“This is boring.” Sherlock sighs, leaning back. </p><p>“Oh. Are you going to bombard me with endless questions of ‘are we there yet?’?” </p><p>“Nope. Not yet.” Sherlock fiddles around with his phone, looking for some music to listen to. “Not<em> that </em>bored yet.” </p><p>He finds some Vivaldi and shortly after he drifts off – rocked to sleep by the motion of the car as it speeds along the motorway. </p><p> </p><p>* * *</p><p> </p><p>Sherlock hears the sound of an engine being killed when he comes into awareness next. He rubs at his head. There’s a slight throbbing ache at his temples, but not enough for him to reach for a paracetamol. Bloody hell. He’s had concussions before but they had always resolved quickly. Here, almost three months since his accident, he’s still feeling residual effects. He feels slower too, now that he thinks about it. His brain – which used to whirl with a frenetic energy back in 2010 – is sluggish in comparison. Fuzzy at times. Sure, he can still outthink the goldfish, but still. Too many knocks to the head? But then that hematoma had really been something. </p><p>He opens one eye blearily, making out Mycroft. From the distance, he can hear the sea crash against the shore. His brother turns to him, looking concerned. </p><p>“Head hurting again?”</p><p>“Yeah.” Sherlock says reluctantly. “But nothing I can’t handle.” </p><p>“Come on. I think the fresh air would do you a world of good.” </p><p>“Are we there yet?” He asks.</p><p>Mycroft smiles fondly. “No. But I thought here would be a nice place to stop. It’s quiet. Off the beaten path. A secret amongst the locals.” </p><p>Sherlock opens the door, standing up groggily to stretch his cramping limbs. Judging by the position of the sun in the sky, maybe two or three hours had passed since they had left home. Damn, how did he know that? He scratches at his head. It’s now late afternoon. He shuts the door, and Mycroft’s warm hand is suddenly in his. The wind is blowing, sending his curls in disarray. It’s a brisk day. </p><p>His brother isn’t moving. His eyes are fixated on him. </p><p>Then Mycroft scans his surroundings and then pulls Sherlock closer. His brother embraces him, before initiating the sweetest of kisses. Sherlock sighs into it. Mm. They break apart. Mycroft reaches for the basket at the back, and soon they are strolling seaward, the gravel crunching beneath their feet. </p><p>There is no one around for kilometers. Long grasses grow in rows in the soft, almost white sand. There is the gentle crash of the sea as it moves inward, before retreating. The soft cries of kittiwakes echo as they soar above – flying betwixt the rocky ledges and the sea. It’s peaceful. A peace that his 2010 self would have revolted against. But here, in this now – it seems to be matching the pace of his mind. Is this because of the brain injury… or age? His life experiences? He certainly endured much that he cannot recollect. </p><p>Sherlock isn’t sure how long they walk, hand-in-hand. But at some point, Mycroft puts the basket down on the sand. A blanket comes out of the basket, and he spreads it on the ground. Sherlock toes off his shoes and steps onto the blanket in his sock-clad feet. When was the last time he’d been at a beach? Probably recently as his former self, but his present self? Childhood probably. Vague memories. He lies down on the blanket just simply staring at the sky. Minutes later, his brother passes him a tupperware and a fork. </p><p>He opens it, inhaling the scent of the Chinese-styled dumplings that he had made a few days before and steamed earlier in the day. Popping open the little cup of Chinese vinegar, garlic and spicy Hunan pepper based oil, he dips his dumplings into the sauce, and bites into it readily. Pork, little shrimp and cabbage. It’s one of his favourite comfort dishes. There is also a thermos of still hot wintermelon soup that they share between them, and it’s perfect for a cool day at the seaside. He looks longingly at the waters, but he knows it’s too damned cold to dip in it at this time of year. </p><p>Mycroft feeds him grapes afterward. And soon they are curled up against each other on the blanket. Sherlock feels safe and happy like this, and he knows that he wouldn’t give this up for anything.</p><p>If only he could remember! Their precious years together. He’s pretty much given up at this point, and Mycroft has stopped bringing it up completely. </p><p>They don’t leave until the sun sets, setting the sky ablaze in magnificence.      </p><p> </p><p>* * *         </p><p> </p><p>They spend the next few days at a cottage. Old-fashioned, but with all the comforts of the modern era. It is walking distance from a quaint little village, a spa and the sea. </p><p>To humour Mycroft who enjoys all the finer things in life, Sherlock had let himself be dragged to the spa on the first day where they had sweated it out in a private and hot steamy room (a banya). They had both laid on top of benches covered with fragrant hay, and therapists (four rather burly men) armed with birch, oak and eucalyptus twigs proceeded to work them over by brushing the twigs over their naked bodies. Sherlock had never felt so overheated before, and it had been a relief at the end to jump into a tub of freezing cold water. Good god, he had felt so awake afterwards – feeling like he had just chased down a serial killer. </p><p>They had gone to another private room afterwards (of regular room temperature), and snacked on caviar, vareniki (potato and mushroom dumplings), smoked salmon and pickles. Accompanied by a bottle of a fermented honey drink and glasses of vodka for afters. They had made out in the room, before they went to go finish their day with a massage and a honey and salt scrub. Sherlock had left the place refreshed but so dazed. Straight liquor is never a good idea. </p><p>They spend the other days exploring the village, the beaches nearby or themselves in their very comfortable bed. It’s ridiculous. Sherlock had mused. That he could have fallen in love so hard and fast – but perhaps that’s because old-him had already fallen deep and his body is just picking up where they had left off. </p><p>He adores his brother, who tolerates his preferences for sulking and bratty behaviour with good humour. Who can give it as good as it gets, whether it is a scientific debate, silly banter or something physical. One of their silly play fights had turned into full on wrestling and Sherlock had loved it. Tussling with his brother, who had managed to pin him down after a few minutes. Mycroft had taken him then and there as a ‘victory prize’ of sorts. The closest that Sherlock had ever been ‘fucked stupid’.</p><p>There is something that weighs heavily on his mind though. He hasn’t said ‘I love you’ to his brother since that first fuck in the kitchen. There is something holding him back. Mycroft says it to him often. He has tried to say it at various times, but it has never happened. These incidents leave him feeling disappointed in himself. And if he hasn’t imagined it, a brief look of sadness in Mycroft’s eyes. </p><p>“Where are we going?” Sherlock looks up to see his brother carrying a basket. </p><p>“I thought we might as well just go sit in the garden. It’s a nice day. Warm.” </p><p>“A little romantic, isn’t it? Cheesy?” </p><p>“Don’t lie, you enjoy romantic and cheesy things too.”</p><p>Sherlock smiles slightly. “Maybe a little. But fine, I will indulge you, big brother mine.”</p><p>“Thank you.” Mycroft nods, and Sherlock can’t tell if his brother is being sarcastic or sincere. Maybe both. </p><p>The garden is expansive. At first glance, it looks like a garden left to grow wild, but there is deliberation behind the chaos. Full of perennial grasses and shrubs. Late autumn flowers are blooming. Notably the chrysanthemums, dianthus and sweet alyssums. Carpets of purple, whites, pinks and peaches. A weeping willow stands in one corner, its leaves are hues of fiery oranges and yellows. His brother drops the blanket on the ground and walks off to look at the carpet of aubergine-pigmented alyssums behind the trunk of the formidable tree. </p><p>There is just something about the British Government enjoying flowers that inspires fuzzy warm fond feelings to rise within him. But then again, this isn’t the British Government; this is his lover. Dressed simply in the softest turtleneck and a pair of comfortable jeans. </p><p>Suddenly feeling like they are standing too far apart, Sherlock walks to his brother.</p><p>“My?” </p><p>“Yes, Lock?”</p><p>Mycroft turns to look at him, and Sherlock takes advantage of the opportunity to just kiss him. It’s ardent. Needy. His brother moans into the kiss, and Sherlock is making use of all the pieces of knowledge he had accumulated about kissing since his traumatic brain injury to snog Mycroft absolutely senseless. He trembles himself when his tongue finally touches Mycroft’s, after gently coaxing his lips open. Their tongues entwine in the most sensual dance. At some point, Mycroft’s back had hit the tree trunk. There is something potent in the scents of the garden – the fragrance ensnaring his senses – somehow turning this whole experience into a fever dream. </p><p>A strong sense of déjà vu seems to come over him. Like he has done this all before. But yes, they’ve made out a countless number of times. No. It seems like he’s been here before. Years ago. Kissing someone right here. Not just someone. His brother. His Mycie. God. He drops one of his arms which had been wrapped around his brother and grasps Mycroft’s hand in his. Something had happened here. Love. Making love around the flowers. And. Oh. </p><p>He presses forward against his brother, letting his hands slide down to Mycroft’s hips. The kiss ends, and he slowly looks up into Mycroft’s blue eyes. He leans forward ever so slowly, and allows his forehead to touch his brother’s. He lets their noses brush against each other. Their cheeks come into contact too, and they just stand there. Just enjoying this simple intimacy. </p><p>Time seems to be standing still. </p><p>His mouth moves, words coming out. </p><p>“This was the garden of Aunt Blanche. One of Mummy’s cousins. She lived here with her youngest sister, our Aunt Elspeth – or Ellie as everyone called her. By all accounts, they were extremely devoted to each other. Where one went, the other followed. Usually hand-in-hand. Ellie fell gravely ill when she was in her twenties. She could hardly leave the house, and Aunt Blanche started this garden – wanting her to be able to see her favourite plants right outside her window. Or to take her outside in her wheelchair on the days she was up to it. When she passed, Aunt Blanche buried her beneath her favourite flowers, but left no marker – as she had said that Ellie had no need for such things. The garden is enough. Aunt Blanche didn’t live long after Ellie, following her a few years later. She was cremated (against tradition) and had her ashes spread here. She bequeathed the property to her former housekeeper, who started a Bed and Breakfast here in this village with the condition that the garden is to be maintained. The cottage itself was completely redone for tourists, but the garden was kept as requested. God. Mycroft. I had planned this. When we first came.” He takes a breath – while mentally grasping at the tendril of memory that seems to be unfurling. “I uh talked to Mummy.” He couldn’t believe it! “Wanted to know if there were any properties connected or held by our family that we could go to. For relaxation. And she told me about this place. She hasn’t gone since Blanche’s death – but she told me that we could visit on her behalf. And we did, two months after we first kissed.” He pulls his head away from Mycroft – breaking contact. “It was <em> here, </em>underneath this weeping willow where I first told you that I loved you. And. I do. I do in fact love you. Fuck.” </p><p>Mycroft’s eyes are shining with tears. So is his now that he thinks about it. </p><p>“I promised you forever. Even though I now know that pesky head injuries could get in the way.” Sherlock continues. “God. Brother. I thought you were a goner when Anthea first called me. She was so… un-Anthea-like on the phone. Borderline hysterical. It was… frightening. And I thought about how things had ended up after Sherrinford… and I couldn’t. Couldn’t let you go without telling you that I cared. That our crazy sister wasn’t your fault. Couldn’t… let her win. I had taken you for granted, big brother. And that was a bitter truth. It’s one I should have realized back at Sherrinford. You looked so impossibly small when I saw you next. It was all wrong. I was the one who should be in the bed, and you were the one who was supposed to be keeping vigil next to my bedside. I saw your machete scars too. They were old, but you could have died then too. It’s why you never wore short-sleeved shirts. And you never told me. I did a lot of thinking next to your bedside, aside from holding your hand and trying to keep Anthea from losing it completely. And when you finally woke up, days later – I made the decision to stay until you no longer needed me. Or wanted me to. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. You know me.”</p><p>“You are capable of great things, Lock.” Mycroft finally speaks. “I always thought that.” And then he adds, his voice barely louder than the gentle breezes blowing about. “I would never not want you. I was surprised, you know – when I saw you at my bedside. Anthea had told you against my wishes. I thought I had been hallucinating your voice. The feel of your hand against mine.”</p><p>“It was the best thing that I had ever done.” Sherlock says, grasping Mycroft’s other hand.</p><p>They kiss. Long and sweet. It’s different already. Like a kiss given between couples who have been together for a long time. Mycroft had wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s waist – his hands resting on his bottom. Somehow it is both casual and possessive at once. Their bodies are pressed against each other and yet – it’s not close enough. Mycroft’s hand slips out of Sherlock’s. And he flinches when a chilly late-autumn wind hits his exposed pelvis. His brother initiates another kiss. A guttural moan, seeming to start deep within him, escapes into his brother’s mouth when their pricks come together in Mycroft’s hand. Fuck. </p><p>His brother’s hand pumps slowly but deliberately, stretching out the build after spreading the precum to lubricate both their cocks. It’s delicious, yet so hard to keep himself from bucking his hips – just wanting more and more. They hadn’t frotted here the first time. Sherlock had spread the same blanket that Mycroft had brought out here, and Mycroft had fucked him next to the flowers. Neither of them last long – they try to come together, but Sherlock ends up spilling first. He collapses, panting against his brother – who is keeping him upright. </p><p>He wonders what their Aunts would think of this. Of them fucking in their garden of sisterly love. Perhaps they would approve, but Sherlock has no idea. They certainly are not the first ones to make love here. That’s for certain. </p><p>A handkerchief comes out of Mycroft’s pockets and he wipes them both off. Sherlock pulls up his own pants and trousers, and helps Mycroft with his. They embrace again – Mycroft holding him tight as if Sherlock would disappear if he held on too lightly. </p><p>“This was my last ditch effort.” Mycroft admits. “I thought the scent could bring your memories back. A small possibility, but I knew I had to try.”</p><p>“Olfaction is linked very strongly to memory.” Sherlock adds. “I am glad you brought me here.” </p><p>“As am I.” </p><p>They both look at each other with silly little besotted grins on their faces. </p><p>All of his memories are slowly returning. Of him giving Mycroft a sponge bath. The first of which had been really awkward for a man who was used to experimenting on cadavers. But Mycroft had taken it in good humour. Well – to be fair, Mycroft wasn’t exactly in the condition to leave or tell him off back then. </p><p>All his cases – he really had been cutting down on the legwork over the years, but that scuffle that led to his head injury had been an unexpected encounter. Lestrade and he had thought that they were looking through an abandoned house, little knowing that their thugs had been hiding in a secret room. Fortunately none of them had been armed. </p><p>Of them dancing at one of the charitable banquets the Queen had thrown. There had been no murders. Sherlock had to keep his mouth shut whenever certain personalities crossed his path. They had been dressed to the nines, and treated the evening as a date night (minus the physical affection). He did enjoy deducing all the self-important men and women though, feeling rather like Magnussen probably had felt like during these events – picking up all the sordid secrets. They had been very melancholic the next day, realizing exactly how hard it was to keep their hands away from each other. It was too risky, they had decided – that someone could find them out like this at such high-profile events, so Mycroft no longer brought Sherlock along to his parties. Just as Mycroft keeps out of Sherlock’s social life. </p><p>And their trips! Sherlock had loved them all. Most of the time, they could just <em> be </em>with a few precautions.</p><p>“I’ve missed you. So much.” Mycroft breaks the silence. </p><p>“I know. I am sorry.” Sherlock nuzzles his lover’s face. “I am sorry I left you. I didn’t want to.”</p><p>“I know that too. There’s no need to apologize.” Mycroft replies. “But I am glad that we got to make new memories to go on top of the old. And I am glad to know that even if you had only your memories up to 2010, you would still find me lovable.”       </p><p>“You are very lovable, brother mine.” Sherlock leans forward for another kiss. </p><p>“I think we should stay here longer. Another week?” </p><p>“But no more spas, big brother. The only person I want touching me is you. And there’s a perfectly good hot tub in the cottage. If you want to be beaten with sticks, I can go cut some oak and birch twigs –”</p><p>“Haha. Fine. But I did manage to convince you to give it a second go.” </p><p>“Good god, you are a piece of work – taking advantage of helpless little<em> injured </em> brothers – hey! Stop!” </p><p>Mycroft starts tickling him, starting with his armpits. Sherlock is in hysterics, as he tries to fend off his brother’s merciless fingers.</p><p>“Oh god. Please. Stop.” He gasps a minute later when Mycroft obeys and kisses him on the cheek as an apology.</p><p>They grin broadly again at each other. </p><p>And it is long past sunset when they finally manage to tear themselves away from the old garden which has kept the secrets of its lovers for decades, long before either of them had been born. </p><p>* * *</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>